


Cult of Souls

by QueenOfTheUnderground



Category: Keith Richards - Fandom, Mick Jagger - Fandom, The Rolling Stones, classic rock - Fandom
Genre: Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Infidelity, Oral Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-02
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27773869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfTheUnderground/pseuds/QueenOfTheUnderground
Summary: After years of barely scraping by, it seems like her luck is turning around when The Rolling Stones invite her band to join their 1969 American Tour. The sudden weight of bourgeoning fame and an unwelcome romance with the Stones’ guitarist  might be enough to break her.
Relationships: Keith Richards/Anita Pallenberg, Keith Richards/Original Female Character(s), Mick Jagger/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

There’s something about music. Not when you hear it buzzing off a record or scratching through radio signals, but real music- so loud it vibrates your ribs and forces breath from your lungs. When it fills the room with heat, everybodies breath thick and sweet with sweat, anticipation… that’s music. Your hands clench and unclench, watching the crowd from the side of your eyes. Fucking animals.  
The song twangs its last note and you flick your cigarette to the beer soaked bar. You push your way through the crowd, arms up to avoid catching a stray elbow as you often did at your height. A winding hall of smoke and strangers leads you to a door barely hanging on its hinges. You shuffle into the cramped room and are immediately slapped with a t-shirt.  
“Cover up, will ya’?” Donnie crooks his neck to meet you at eye-level, but is pountedky focused on your rack rather than your face. “I can see nipples!”  
“That’s what it’s all about, Don. Leave her alone.” Your guitarist, Clement, spins lazily in a chair.  
“Shut up,” you shove him, “we’re up.”  
“Already? What was that, a ten minute set?” Jonesie looked sweaty already, the place was stuffy but no one was dripping like he was. The drummer was always nervous before he got up there, but in your opinion he was the most talented guy in any room.  
“It was short and they sucked. Even if we royally fuck ourselves we’ll sound ten times better.” Donnie reassures them and grabs a smoke from the pack Frances, Beethovian level master of organ, keyboard, and harpsichord, extends.  
“I can confirm.” You check your smeared makeup in the mirror. Your hair had doubled in size from the humidity, but it was perfect. You looked absolutely wild. “Let’s eat them alive.”  
The boys sing the chorus of some weird schoolyard tune while you rush to stage left. The noisy crowd reels them back to reality with all the subtlety of a bus crash, they stand stone faced and silent. You look at them with all the intensity you can muster, and they march out as if given battle instructions. The place gets even louder when Donnie plays a few bass chords and screams into the mic. “Hello Chicago! How we doin’ tonight?” Clement drowns out their cries with a power riff. “We’re the Cult of Souls and I give you…” Jonesie plays a joking fanfare beat and then crashes the symbols as your cue to emerge from the darkness.  
“Our Goddess!”  
The one good thing about a burning, hot spotlight, aside from making your sweat sparkle, was that you couldn’t see the audience. If you couldn’t see them, you couldn’t get stage fright.  
The craving in the room was palpable. You were attractive, you’d known this before you hit puberty, but the smoldering stare you cast out to your spectators made you otherworldly to them. You didn’t know who you were giving fuck-me eyes to, but the pointed look you cast out like a fishing line would undoubtedly be one of the best moments of one of these schmucks life.  
The band started up the haunting melody of your newest track and you melted into it. The set went seamlessly and before you knew it, the boys were pulling you off the stage as brassieres and other offerings were flying to your feet. The lights turned down and you found the reason you were being manhandled was not Clement’s impatience, but because there were people actively climbing the stage towards you. Security, wherever they were in that mass of bodies, had lost the war against adolescent fanatics.  
You all scrambled backstage, running and tripping and howling off the high of a great performance. Donnie was saying something unintelligible to you and the grin on your face was growing painful. There was nothing like the warm sunshine of being loved by a room of people you’ve never met.  
Back in your tiny dressing room (broom closet), your roadie and Jonesie’s girlfriend, Mabel, was already packing shit away. The boys screamed a praise for Clement’s addition to the riff they rehearsed just that morning, Frances’ killer breakdown in the last song, and your hitting a note that you struggled with. In the buzzing recap, not one of you noticed the two extra people in the room.  
Clement, least inebriated, was the first to quiet. You recognized a strange look in his usually expressionless eyes. “Boys!” He shushed them.  
Two men stood in the doorway. One, Billie Feinbeck, your sleazy manager. The other, a somehow sleazier man in a better suit. “Get cleaned up kiddos, we’re going out.” Billie’s grin was contagious, you weren’t sure what was going on, but you had a feeling it was going to be a good fucking night.  
You were right.  
“The Rolling fucking Stones? We’re touring with the Rolling motherfucking Stones?” Jonesie sputtered, gripping his own knees like he might fall over. You were all trashed, but strangely sobered, sitting in a circle on the motel room floor. “That’s it. We did it. We made it.”  
“I don’t know what to do. This doesn’t feel real.” Frances half-whispered. He got it just right. This was like nothing you could imagine. Of course every band wants to think they’ll make it, but being hand picked by an international sensation?  
You looked at them. They looked at you. “We deserve this. We have worked so hard for so long to get this kind of exposure. It’s all we need to take it to the top. We’re gonna give the Stones a run for their fucking money.”  
The few weeks leading up to the first date in Fort Collins were a blur. None of you had normal jobs anymore, having committed to the poverty of artists to put out your first two records last year, so there weren’t too many loose ends to tie. You packed your lives into two suitcases each and hopped on a plane. After a lifetime of shitty hotel-motel arrangements, arriving at your suite was earth shattering. Donnie and Jonesie were like five year olds running around and jumping on the beds. The main living area had a pullout for Frances, there was a side room for Jones and Don, which left you and Clem in the master. He offered to sleep on the floor, to which you rolled your eyes. As if you hadn’t all slept ass to ass in two twin beds before. He submitted and crawled into bed, lounging back with a sigh. You stripped off your shirt with your back to him and pulled a clean(er) one over your head. The jetlag had hit before you landed, and by now it was weighing your body down like a bag of bricks. You felt a light flutter on your arm.  
“New one?” Clem pulled his hand away, staring at the back of your arm.  
“Yeah, Benny did it before I left.”  
“Helluva going away present. Did he say ‘remember me?’” He batted his eyes mockingly.  
You examined your bicep. The sexual revolution meant a lot more to you than a free-for-all fuckfest. 1960s had really expanded your concept of women, and you decided to do whatever you wanted. That included dropping out of highschool to front a rock’n’roll band and covering yourself in tattoos. You’d grown up with a support system of old sailors, your dad serving in the Navy with a bunch of salty dogs that filled the roles of brothers, uncles, and grandfathers. Their body art made them public markers of another way of life, even within the strict confines of the military. They were tough and could prove it. And you were too. “Wasn’t that sentimental. He stuck me with a needle and ink, then fucked my brains out.”  
Clem frowned. He didn’t always appreciate your humor. “That’s why you’re such an idiot?”  
You flipped him one and collapsed onto the mattress. “Scoot over. What about Amy?” “What about her?” He answered so flatly that you flipped onto your stomach to meet his eyes. “What happened?”  
“I talked, she yelled, it’s over. I didn’t like her that much anyways.” He grumbled.  
“I’m sorry.” You said quietly and leaned your head on his arm. He looked down at you from his shaggy hair and quirked his mouth up. “‘S’okay. We’re on a fast train to the land of milk and honey. And pussy.”  
“And drugs.” you nodded in solidarity. “Here, here.”  
At some point the both of you passed out and the suite was filled with soft snores and the occasional shuffle of sheets. You didn’t have practice scheduled until noon so nobody had set an alarm but you. It was a silent agreement that you were the sheepdog guiding the flock. At some point the door to yours and Clem’s room squeaked wider, it had been cracked just a bit. In your sleepy haze, you pulled a pillow over your head and moaned. Clem stretched, bones popping audibly, and whispered hoarsely. “What’s up Bill?”

Why would Billie be your wake up call? He was usually face down on a plate of the coke he couldn’t finish the night before, ignoring your calls. Your ears perked and you found your cognition slowly churning to full steam. “They’re coming up. They’re coming up now.”  
“Who?”  
“Them!”  
“Them? Now?”  
“They just got in from London. Time differences don’t mean shit to them, bucko.”  
“They can’t wait a few hours? Let us have some coffee and a shit?”  
“I guess the fuck not, get everybody up.” 

You peaked out from your pillow fort with bleary eyes. “It’s early,” you whined.

“Tough luck doll, superstar hours.” Billie explained with a shrug, pinstriped suit visibly worn around the edges. “Brush your teeth.”

Clem, in only his chonies and a single sock, rose to wake the boys as you scrambled into the bathroom to beat them. Your hair had become something so beastly you didn’t dare antagonize it further, opting for a quick splash of cold water to the face. You rushed to brush last night’s grime from your teeth as somebody groggily yelled through the door to hurry up. Taking another moment you scrubbed your armpits with a hand soap and a towel and emerged feeling somewhat decent. As the boys crammed into pee, in both the toilet and bathtub, you tried to soothe the anxiety building in your stomach. One of your strengths was a bulletproof facade of confidence, but bluffing apathy to small time producers and bookers was a world away from meeting the hardest rock band in the world.

You changed your position on the couch four times before giving way to a cigarette on the balcony. Frances joined you and watched through the glass as the boys argued about something inside. 

You couldn’t bear to watch them walk in, instead staring out at the mountains. The jittering in your core just barely passed to the smoke in your hand but nothing slipped by Frances. “Are you nervous?”

“No.” 

“Mmhm.” He drew a long breath, unconvinced. “Here we go.” 

Your stomach dropped. You could feel your heart in your teeth. The boys chorused in some kind of greeting and your jaw hardened to a sharp angle. Fuck.

It was a minute or two before you both finished smoking and let the butts fall a few stories down. You turned and Frankie followed, eyes down. You stared straight ahead, meeting the eyes of men you’d only seen in newsprint. For some reason you imagined they’d be taller. It felt like all eyes were on you, no spotlight to block out the voyeurism. Your boys were obviously expecting you to take control, keep them from acting stupid.

“Well,” Mick’s face spread in a cartoonish grin, far too toothy to be real, “Aren’t you a picture.”

The nervousness dropped from your body like an anchor and you found yourself more irritated than anything. Whatever you’d expected, it wasn’t a come on. It didn’t warrant a response. 

You sat down, very aware of how bitchy you were coming off but unable to stop yourself. Donnie looked at you like you’d shot someone point blank. “Uh… she hasn’t had coffee.” He half-joked and they all laughed awkwardly. 

A brief round of introductions, as if they needed any, and they had moved to you. At some point you’d lit another cigarette inside and savored a long drag before stating your name and thanked them for having you. “We’ve never had an opportunity like this.” Clem added sincerely.

“We’ve heard your stuff, had to have you.” Mick’s smile was almost contagious, almost. The boys were hamming it up and you felt so suddenly overcome with irritation at being woken up for a brunch chat about the tour that could’ve been relayed through a manager. Tour etiquette had previously been a brief hangout directly before the show and then getting black out drunk afterwards. Not this tea and biscuit bullshit. Damn… you’d actually kill for a biscuit. You figured nobody would notice if you slipped into the en-suite kitchenette to rummage for something to chew on.

From your periphery you found a head turned directly toward you, and instinctually you glanced while opening the fridge. Keith made eye contact a second too long before turning abruptly away. Your heart thud, and you opted for a mini bottle of unbranded liquor to cool it down.

Rather than taking it back and sitting down, you poured it tactfully into a coffee cup and sat on the arm of a sofa beside Jonesie. They were in the middle of talking about the European leg of the tour in December and exchanging anecdotes about previous tours. Eventually their manager interrupted with an urgent appointment they had to make and everyone stood. You downed the last of your cup and shook Charlie’s hand, as he was closest. He was absolutely pristine, the cleanest and most polite person in the room- aside from Frances. Mick seemed to go in for friendly hugs, but didn’t give one to you, sensing you likely wouldn’t appreciate it. “I’ll be seeing you, love.” He directed at you with a flirty tone, and took your hand to kiss it. You decided that you did not like him. You weren’t keen on slutty men that assumed they could have you if they wanted. “Mhm.” You fought the urge to say something tart. “Later.”

Keith did an odd, short step towards you and looked down from his hair. He wasn’t tall, but you supposed his energy made him seem much larger up close. You didn’t extend your hand and neither did he. “Nice to meet you,” you finally offered. “Nice to meet you.” He echoed. There was a tense moment of eye contact again, maybe a moment too long, before he turned on his heels and followed them out. 

“You’re such a bitch!” Donnie cackled as soon as the door closed, shoving your arm. You smiled and shot back with “you’re a kiss ass.” Clem shook his head. “Really though, you couldn’t be a little more… complimentary?” 

“No.” You flopped onto the couch, draping your leg of Jonesie and arm behind Clem. 

“She was nervous.” Frances divulged with a mocking twinge. 

They laughed a little bit and you couldn’t find it in you to protest. “Can we practice?”

Donnie groaned. “Does anyone eat breakfast anymore?”

The day drew to a close quicker than you were prepared for, and yet you’d had time to redo your makeup twice. It was a little hard to work with jittering fingers. You stared deeply at your reflection, preening over artfully smudged eyeliner and delicate red lips. Sometimes you looked like a gaudy french babydoll, but it was the only thing that would show on stage. In your boredom you’d drawn a little star shaped beauty mark, more tedious than it was worth, and cartoonish bottom lashes. You abandoned your makeshift vanity to slip into a slinky black number and tights, trying on two pairs of earrings before discarding them both, and finally felt ready to face whatever shitshow you were about to put on.  
They’d planted you in a much bigger dressing room than any of you had seen, and for once your band was silent, choking on thickened air. It felt like the time you usually gave a rah-rah team speech but nothing more than “this is fucking nuts” could be mustered.  
“Well here we go, nutjobs.” Jonesie pointed to the signal light with a drumstick, just as a stagehand knocked to call you all out.  
The minutes leading up to your stage entrance are, to this day, irrecoverable. You can only remember blackness before you found yourself standing in front of a microphone, looking out into an audience liked you’d never seen. The screaming was a blurred roar like ocean waves crashing against a high shoreline. You made no attempt at an introduction, Clem began playing his shrieking, operatic interlude and you suddenly felt you didn’t recognize your own song. It came back just in time for you to wail the words with the heat of your insecurity. Luckily, the reverb was strong enough in the stadium to confirm you were actually singing. The energy of your audience was like a shot of morphine, cooling your veins and inducing a euphoria just like the first time you’d performed. You found your footing quickly and used the newfound freedom of a big stage to jump around and move your body like an instrument in its own right. You slid across the floor, ripped your tights open and burned your knees to bloody pulps. Jonesie discarded a stream of sticks to the ground to his right and you were sure by the third song that a splinter (or stake) was wedged in your calf. It didn’t matter, the pain was exhilarating and you couldn’t stop feeding off the energy. The spotlight was not a constant stream, but a bursting bubble of warmth that let you briefly glimpse out to the worshippers at your feet. When the last note twanged out from Clement’s guitar, the room went silent as a cathedral. It pierced your soul and you fell to your knees, head thrown back in ecstasy.  
It was divine.  
The sky could have opened up and no one would dare breath. And then, all at once, the roar of a hungry audience burned back through the place. You were flushed, panting, and your mascara was leaking into your vision. You gave them an exaggerated showman’s bow and your band mates joined center stage, bending at the waist. Donnie, attention whore that he was, twirled and nearly fell flat over, blowing kisses to the girls desperately clawing their way over the barrier. “And now… The Rolling Stones.” You announced into the mic, stepping back as the floor started to rumble with teen angst.  
Clem guided you off the stage, noticing your limp a few songs back. From the sanctuary of the side stage, the Stones stood with wide eyes, bestowing their silent praise as the crowd continued to rage on. Mick clapped Donnie on the back and shouted something you couldn’t make out. You were surprised they’d bothered to watch, and wondered how long they had been there. A sense of pride smoothed a smile on your sweaty cheeks and you let Clem muss your hair with his knuckles. It was impossible not to meet Keith’s intense stare again, and even more hopeless to try and tear it away when your eyes met. He was the first to break and form his mouth around something like ‘incredible’. The stage went dark to give them a chance to emerge. The boys stayed to watch, but your leg was killing you and you’d have ample chance for a free Stones’ show later.  
After some confusion, you found your way back to the dressing room and examined the wounds of your labor. There were a few splinters in your leg, but when you pulled out the largest, your body seemed to leak. Your tights were discarded on the ground and you wiped yourself clean with a rag from the corner, then duct taped it in a neat square over the scrape. It undoubtedly looked bizarre but you really didn’t care. Nothing could bring down the high of this. It was better than any drug, and you’d done your fair share of those.  
You don’t remember falling asleep, but the boys bursted in with ambulance-siren voices. They were too riled up to notice your state, but Frances assessed you carefully and played doctor. “Here, drink.” He handed you a cup of water from the refreshment cart and peeled your duct taped leg. “Nasty. You okay?”  
You downed the glass in one go and nodded. “Stellar.”  
“You were amazing. I’ve never seen you like that.” Clem squatted in front of you, eyes shining.  
“The Stones are amazing, I can’t believe we were that close.” Donnie practically squealed. “I think we impressed them. Did you see them when we came off?”  
“More like when we got off. I had a boner for ten minutes after we finished.” Jonesie bellowed, pouring himself two cups of whiskey. You giggled and took one from his hand before he could drain them. “I saw. You always get a stiffie for big crowds, huh?”  
“What can I say, rock’n’roll is my mistress.”  
“You think they’ll ask us to hang?” Donnie blurted. He was embarrassingly honest at times, but it was a question you’d all been chewing on.  
“We could always ask. They seem like cool guys, I didn’t think they’d be so groovy.” Frances shrugged.  
“I’m probably going to bed, man, I think I really fucked myself for tomorrow.” You examined your knees and thought, painfully, about the next night. It wouldn’t be a long enough flight to recover from this self-abuse.  
“Don’t you dare,” Donnie gasped, “without a mysterious piece of ass we’re just a bunch of dweebs from nowhere.”  
You couldn’t wipe the smile from your face as the idiots agreed, even Clem, and gave way with a defeated eye roll. “Bastards.”


	2. 2

The Stones had done an encore and given you time to run to the hotel room for a quick wash, sliding your makeup and the metallic stench from your body. Your dress was ruined so you opted for a pair of hot pants and a stained denim jacket you’d lifted from an ex. It looked better on you anyways and was thick enough not to need a shirt underneath. Your legs were already blooming with ungodly purples and reds, you didn’t want to irritate them further by covering up. The boys had stuck around to invite the other band out, and called you to notify the Stones had already gotten a table at some shindig downtown. You found what you were sure was the only cab in Colorado and headed down, met at the door by an already drunk Donnie.   
“Babe!” He tossed his lanky arms over your neck and pulled you into the pulsating music. You let him guide you, despite him knocking into people aimlessly until you reached a quieter table up some stairs. VIP, or something.   
The table was packed with people and illicit substances, all in plain view. “There’s our star! Look at your fucking legs! You’re an animal.” Mick crowed, making room between him and his guitarist. Unfortunately, there wasn’t room for you to squeeze anywhere else without being rude, so you wiggled in and looked around the table. There were beautiful women, beautiful men, and people so beautiful you couldn’t dare assume their gender. Your band mates seemed so shaggy, just barely hardcore enough to fit in. “I’m going to dream about you for weeks. Where’d you learn to sing like that?” Mick shouted in your ear, though the club wasn’t loud enough for it to be lost.  
“My father preached part time. I listened to a lot of gospel, soul music and things.” You reached for the glass to your right, not caring whose it was.   
“Woman after my heart.” Mick offered a joint and you took it gratefully from his fingers. He brushed your hand with little tact.   
When you set the drink down, Keith reached for it almost immediately. Guess he didn’t like sharing. Surprisingly, he spoke. “Who do you listen to?”  
You looked at him a moment, trying to gauge whether this was some kind of test. “Blues nowadays. Otis Rush, John Lee Hooker, Jimmy Reed...” He nodded, but you weren’t sure if he was agreeing or approving your tastes.   
“You like Chuck Berry, then?” Mick asked, but his eyes were on Keith. They both looked at you now. “Of course. He’s the father of us all,” you started, expelling the word vomit that you‘d usually swallow down, “they say it was Elvis or the fuckin’ Beatles because they’re white. We ought to pay homage to the greats, the real greats, that gave us rock and roll.”  
“You’re right.” Keith flashed a grin. You could see why he didn’t smile much, his mouth was even goofier than Mick’s, lopsided and full of jagged teeth. It made your cheeks heat up like a schoolgirl and you thanked Jesus for making nightclubs so dark. “I’d hope to thank him someday.” It was a surprising sentiment from someone you assumed to be harsher than the rest, more edgy. But you liked him.   
“I’m going to go for a smoke.” You announced quiet enough to be ignored, but enough for the people you sat close to. Things were beginning to get a little soft around the edges from your day drinking and the night's exertion, and you felt if you had to say anymore you’d make a fool of yourself.   
“Me too.” Keith stood almost as abruptly and you both tried to squeeze from your seats, and then stand a moment in recovery from the awkwardness. The tension was obviously not in your imagination now, but you weren’t sure what to do. It wasn’t like you had a strong preconception of him, but being so near an accomplished artist wasn’t something you could wrap your head around at the moment, how to approach it. Mick had immediately made himself human to you by revealing a whorish extroverted tick, but Keith hadn’t given you enough to dissect just yet. You had a sense he was like you, cool to the touch but more as a survival mechanism than any kind of confidence one might expect. In fact, he seemed a bit shy and unsure.  
You walked out together silently, a neat space between your arms. In the cold air, your breath hung like smoke. You offered a cigarette. “You’re not freezing?” He motioned vaguely to your bare bottom half.  
“I don’t get cold.” You half-grinned, lighting up. Rather than reach for the zippo, he cautiously held his cigarette out. You leaned in and touched your burning tip to his. He moved his head forward, placing his mouth so gingerly on the end that it had to be some kind of tease. When he drew smoke, his head pulled back and lolled to the wall behind him.  
“Heard your record back home. I loved it.” He started after a bit of silence. Again, the heat of a blush crawled under your jacket. He didn’t like it, he loved it.  
“Thanks. We’ve probably listened to all of yours a thousand times.”   
He didn’t seem to know what to say, oddly humble for his level of notoriety. “Just a bit of fucking around most of the time.”  
“Fucking around.” You echoed with a laugh, suppressing an eye roll.   
His mouth twitched into a little smile, letting his cigarette burn as he looked at you. You quirked an eyebrow, not sure if he was doing it on purpose or if he didn’t truly didn't realize he was staring. If it were anyone else you’d think it skeevy. “Your voice, it reminds me a bit of Billie Holiday. If she were a badass.”  
Bastard, your cheeks blossomed with color. “You’re a brown-noser.”   
“No, really, it’s fantastic. I- I almost had a heart attack watching you.” He seemed to almost blurt it, stumbling over his words. He might’ve been a little wasted, but it made him approachable and, dare you say, sweet.   
You filled your lungs with smoke so deeply you felt yourself get a bit light-headed. There were such long pauses before either of you spoke you’d think you were reading lines. Really, you were both very thoughtful about what you said and how you said it, hardly speaking when you didn’t find importance in being heard. “I didn’t watch you tonight, I was pretty burnt out. You wanna do ‘a bit of fucking around’.”   
His brow furrowed and he opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing. You weren’t sure, but it seemed like his neck was a little ruddy. Oh, you saw how he might’ve taken that. “I meant showing me your Chuck Berry impression,” you clarified flatly.   
“I see, okay, yeah, sure.” He half-stuttered, smiling to himself and dropping his cigarette to the ground. He flagged down one of the cabs lingering in front of the club and you both slipped inside, overcome with warmth of the leather interior. And the smell of stale piss.  
He gave the driver a quick direction and you both leaned against your adjacent doors and pretended to be very interested in the night scenery of downtown Fort Collins. “Your boys won’t worry about you?” Keith asked after a few minutes.  
“Disappearing from social engagements is my move. They won’t notice.”   
“Is it an act?”  
You looked at him with a frown. “Is what?”   
“The whole, uh-“ he motioned vaguely to your body, “Distant, mysterious thing. Is it your act?”   
You scoffed. “I don’t have an act.” You definitely had an act, meticulously groomed over your entire life.  
“I’ve just not met a girl like you.”  
“Then you don’t know any girls. We’re as complex as you can imagine, if not more. We just don’t get to free ourselves from men’s shit rules,” you felt yourself getting heated again. You had a problem with anger, it often escalated very quickly in your tone and actions, as hard as you tried to repress it. He sensed that about you, the intensity. But he didn’t feel embarrassed, more intrigued than anything.  
“No, it’s not that. There’s something else. I don’t even think men have it.” He had a naturally mumbled tone and the drinking seemed to exaggerate it. She wasn’t sure however, that he was drunk or high enough to be talking out of his ass.  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah. I’m not good at much, but I can spot a needle in the shitpile.” He smiled at you and it felt like he could see every corner of your soul. You felt your eyes burn with an unblinking stare. “What, do you wanna fuck or something?” God damn it, there you went, the accusation falling out of your mouth like drool. You always looked for the worst in someone’s intentions, even when they were undeserving.   
His smile melted. “No. That isn’t- isn’t what I meant.” He seemed to deflate, again casting his eyes out the window. You were both quiet for the rest of the ride, the car stopping in front of your hotel.   
Regret gnawed at you, and blood pricked your cheeks like bee stings. You both walked slowly, stride matching but considerably spaced apart. Even further than before. “I’m sorry,” you said quietly when the elevator closed. Neither of you had even clicked a floor. Finally he hit the 13th. Of course they had the penthouse suite.   
“‘S’cool.” He mumbled.   
“I get defensive. I really care about my music, I can’t afford to fuck it up by letting people disrespect me. I’m not like you guys, I-“   
“What are we like?” He interrupted, harsher than you expected. He must’ve thought you were going off of tabloid gossip about his bands wild antics.   
“No, I mean, you guys. Even my guys. You make great music and the world treats you like Gods, you can fuck and drink and act how you want and it’s almost applauded. Me…. I’ve got to be twice as good and twice as mean to get half your respect. I can’t get through a studio meeting without someone grabbing my ass, treating me like a... I have to be this way to get what I want.” You explained, long-winded but sincere. He watched you closely from the corner of his eyes. While he hadn’t gone through what you had to get where he was, he felt every ounce of what you’d said.   
“I get it. I’ll back off.”  
“That’s not what I’m asking,” you said, a little too quickly for your taste. He hadn’t been abrasive at all, but it was now clear he’d hit on you in his own, subtle way. “Just understand why I’m an asshole. You get used to it, I hear.” Smooth recovery, jackass. You could hit yourself. He smiled, finally, and stepped out of the elevator. Jesus, even the halls up here were classier.   
“Alright, so you’re an arsehole.”  
You followed in silence, feeling more like a scorned puppy than a rockstar. He unlocked a door at the end of a long hallway and flipped on the lights. It was magnificent, the ceilings ten times higher and chandelier ten times brighter than your place down a few floors. You looked around, parking yourself on a seat near the window.  
“Alright.” He had lit a cigarette and opened a filthy guitar case on the floor. The interior was a crushed purple velour, slightly tinged with a few years' use. “I’ll bust out some Berry for you, but I want you to tear me apart if I ruin it.”  
“I’ll kick your ass.” You nodded in solemn agreement and you both laughed. Feeling a little too formal in your seat, you plopped onto the floor by the bed and looked up to where he sat. Like a light rain over water, his fingers danced across the strings. You knew it was Berry, but he made it all his own, blending different styles without a seam. It was fascinating, so much more so than when Clem played. Your mouth hung open just enough to be considered a gawk.  
He finished with a bottleneck twang and looked down at you, almost expectantly. Was he bothering to ask for approval? You weren’t one for giving compliments and truly didn’t know what to say. It tumbled out like a hiccup, “you’re amazing.”   
The movement of his smile dropped the long line of ash building at the end of his smoke onto the bed. He didn’t notice or care to. “You play?”  
“Badly. I’m not very good with my hands.”  
“Then sing for me,” he played the first few notes of a song you held dear. How he knew you’d be familiar with it was beyond you. There seemed to be some kind of silent communication between this man and your deepest heart. It was painful and disgusting, you hadn’t had a ‘crush’ since Tommy Warner turned you down in seventh grade.  
He strummed so softly it sounded like a lullaby. “Catch a boat to England baby, maybe to Spain.  
Wherever I have gone, wherever I've been and gone, wherever I have gone… the blues are all the same,” you pulled your knees in, gripping your ankles and closing your eyes, “Send out for whiskey baby, send out for gin. Me and room service honey, me and room service babe, me and room service, well, we're living a life of sin.”  
He watched you, you could feel it, and harmonized so quietly it could’ve been your imagination. “When I'm not drinkin' baby you are on my mind. When I'm not sleepin' honey, when I ain't sleepin' mama, when I'm not sleepin'...   
you know you'll find me crying.”   
The song was bittersweet, you felt the lyrics in the core of your stomach, your features becoming relaxed. He hadn’t seen more than three expressions of yours yet and this was more than he could handle. When it finished, you opened your eyes. “That’s one of my favorite songs in the world.”   
“It’s a good track. You want something to drink?” He stood up suddenly and let his guitar slide to the mattress.   
“Uh, sure.” You really didn’t want to drink more, but it was in your nature to keep up. “Anything but beer.”  
“Right.” He rummaged for something in a suitcase and brought a whole bottle over, settling in the floor beside you.  
You talked for hours, thoughtfully listening to each other’s stories, how you’d grown up and where you’d bought your first record and how you began playing music and what it was like trying to pioneer an emerging culture. He had a very soft, sing-songy tone to his voice that could soothe you to sleep, but the closeness of it invirgorated you. Of course you knew your band mates well, and they knew your daily life, having been in close quarters since you were young, but never had you talked in such depth about yourself. You were a bare minimum kind of person, always committing to the well being of friends out of natural loyalty but never depending on them for emotional support. That was how you liked it, at a distance.  
“You leave anyone back home to come here?” He asked, seemingly out of the blue.   
You were both decently wasted now, laying on your backs on the rug. At some point your arms had become close enough to brush, and neither of you had moved since. “No one worth missing.”   
“Mm.”  
“You?”  
“Girlfriend. Son.”   
“You have a kid?” You looked away from the chandelier at his profile.   
“Just a bit. I barely met him.”  
“How old is he?”  
Keith frowned. “Er…. it’s November? Two? Three months?”  
“Oh shit.” You blinked. “You like him?”  
He laughed, turning his head to meet yours. “Well I suppose we’ll see. Not much of anything yet, is he?”  
“I guess not. Are you close with his mother?”  
“I suppose. I don’t know. I shouldn’t have left, but I wanted to. Think I maybe needed to.”  
You got the sense he hadn’t talked about this, hadn’t thought through what to say if someone asked him, “Do you think you can be a father?”  
He sucked in a breath and let it out as a sigh. “From what I hear doesn’t take much to be one. They’re all shit and I don’t think I’ll be much better. Probably better off without me around.” He was mumbling, slurring his words, and probably too honest for his own good.  
“Maybe not. Making a human isn’t an indictment. I think it’d been better if my dad fucked off. Nuclear family models are more hell than they’re worth,” you did your best to validate what he was trying to communicate. “You love her, your girlfriend?”   
“I dunno. Think we fell together because we didn’t have anyone else. She’s incredible but I think she’s created some person in her head and put my face on him. I don’t think she loves me the way she thinks she does. She was with my mate before me, we’re interchangeable to her.”  
“Mm.” You hum, closing your eyes when the ceiling seemed to sway. “You know, I think love is a real loose concept. Just something to patch onto feelings that seem too big for anything else. Everyone feels it differently, so you can’t say she doesn’t love you. But her kind of love… it might not be your kind of love. We’re artists, our loves are fewer and bigger than most.”  
When you opened your eyes he was staring at you again, something you had started feeling more comfortable with. Sure it felt like he was peering directly into your soul and consuming all the nasty bits, but you didn’t mind being naked this way. Not with him.  
“It feels like you’re tapped into something I’ve been trying to find for ages.”  
“Things start to make sense when you put yourself on the outside.”  
“I want to kiss you.” He propped himself on his elbow and stared at you until you did too.  
Your chest erupted in flames. He was a stoned-face killer and he was waiting for permission to end you.   
“No. Not right now.”  
“Then I’ll wait. I wanted you to know.”  
A divine intervention in the form of the door slamming open gave you a heart attack and you sat up. The Stones were as surprised to see you as you were them, stopping in the doorway. “Cheeky.” Mick raised his eyebrows, walking to the sofa. He was in a cross-faded stupor, eyes glazed and lips swollen. “So this is where you slipped off to.” He seemed to examine the both of your clothes, especially yours, as you stood. The room was weighted in one direction and you felt it difficult to steady your footing.   
“I should go. Good night.” You directed to no one in particular, hardly meeting Keith’s eyes as you spun to the open door and practically scurried out. You weren’t concerned much with what they all thought you’d been doing, but rather which floor your room was on. It took a few tries to find a familiar hallway. The lights were all off, as if the boys had immediately fallen into bed.   
Rather than try to get yourself ready the next morning after such hard drinking, you packed your things quietly in anticipation of the flight and slipped into bed. You hadn’t noticed until getting under the covers how badly your body ached. Tomorrow would be a rough one.  
You snuck in maybe two hours of sleep on the plane, then another in your hotel room for a grand total of four. The show went well, again, and a similar surge of inhuman virility stifled your exhaustion. You were adamant, this time, that you rest while the others went out for a second time. Clem offered, half-assed, to stay behind with you, but you shooed him away and took advantage of the empty room for a bubble bath. 

You emerged, silken and lavender scented and ready for bed. But 9:30 hit and you could not quiet your brain. It raked over the coals of last evening and nursed a small fire in your panties that you neglected out of spite. God, it would be so easy to pull Keith into some dark place and get it over with, have your fill and move on. Or would it? You weren’t sure, but something told you if you dared entertain a single thought of romance, it would drown you. You had fucked plenty, but usually because you didn’t care enough to shove that person off of you. There was something about him, something about how you were with him, it all just felt… right? Like the return of a missing cog in a clock that hadn’t ticked for years. And yet, you couldn’t bring yourself to give in. If suppressing emotions were an Olympic sport, you’d be fucking golden. This tour was the key to your dreams, not some skinny Englishman with a guitar. If you gave in, you were just another groupie throwing your creative potential away for some dude. 

But god... was he some dude. A dude with a model girlfriend. And an infant. And a body of bestselling music. You had no place near him. That was that, you decided over a glass of shit wine. You were done being a fool.


	3. 3

The next day at practice, you were an icebox. Clem asked you what your deal was and you said you hadn’t slept. He let it slide, but kept glancing at you for some break in facade, some hint you were a human being under there. 

There was a dinner arranged before the show, and you sat between Charlie and Frances, a guarantee not to be engaged. You avoided Keith’s gaze, but it was like ignoring the sun in your eyes- inescapable and blinding. Against your better judgement you glanced up a few times and found that he was asking you a question without saying a word. Likely, what’s your fucking problem? You didn’t look up from your plate again. 

He managed to catch you backstage as you searched for some kind powder to keep your heels from sliding off. “I got too drunk. I didn’t know what I was saying. Are you upset?”

You looked at his shoulder. “No, I’m fine.”

“Are you embarrassed because Mick’s been making fun?”

You hadn’t heard him say anything, but the thought pissed you off. “I don’t care.”

He spoke your name. You almost shivered. “I want to be your friend. I need you to… let me be your friend.” His words hung on you like a noose. His hand wrapped around yours and it made you feel quite small. 

You didn’t stand a chance. “Listen, I don’t trust myself to…”

“To what.”

“Be your,” you finally looked up and knew it was a mistake. He eyes were endless. “Friend.”

He was red from the space in his shirt to the tip of his ears. His own anxiety somehow calmed yours. “We can be anything you want. But if you won’t give me at least that I’ll… I’ll cut my hands off.” 

“You’ll what?” You cackled, trying to shove him. He preyed on your closeness and pulled you into his chest, lifting you just barely off of the ground. “I’ll cut my hands off, I’ll never play again, the tour will be cancelled, the death of The Rolling Stones! You’ll kill rock and roll!” He shouted. Tears spilled from the corners of your eyes as he squeezed wheezing laughs from you, shaking your body like a rag doll.

“Fu- cking, ba-stard!” You hiccupped, leaning into him even when he loosened his grip. The electricity of touching like this for the first time tingled in your legs, like your knees might give out. You’d both stopped laughing, and stood like that, transfixed. 

Your body ached to be touched, though already pressed to him. Like you needed him deeper, wanted to absorb into his being. Not even in the throes of a hard fucking had you felt this alive. His hand on your back curled into the flesh and you couldn’t help but take the opportunity to bury your face in his neck. Finally, the reality of being caught like this pulled you from him.

“We can go somewhere tonight. The beach or something.” You cross your arms for the illusion of distance. 

“Beach in California? That’s pretty romantic, mate.” He mocked and you covered half your face.

“Shut up or I’ll change my mind.”

He closed his lips tight and walked backwards, smiling all the time. Fuck, fuck, fuck, you were fucked! You wanted him and you couldn’t do anything about it. Sure, you slept around in the early days, and you weren’t shy about it, but that was just something to do, a point to prove. You’d thought at the time you had your heart broken a thousand times, tending to pick volatile males with ‘feelings’ that would break your shit and knock on your door at 3am screaming. But the drama was more of a distraction, you had a feeling that Keith was going to make you feel things you hadn’t known existed, and make all of those ‘loves’ seem small. No, you didn’t love him yet, but you somehow knew that continuing to talk to him in any capacity was damning you to falling hard. 

The hell with it, you couldn’t do a thing to stop it now. Touching him was better than… you rifled through the many highs of your drug experimentation and couldn’t think of one that even compared. He was exhilarating.

This evening you stuck around to watch the Stones’ set. Your eyes hardly left his form, fascinated with the intensity of his face and hands. When they were done, you congratulated them with a smile, shocking them with your hot and cold temperament. Mick looked to Keith, like he knew what was going on, mouth devilishly curled at the edges. He didn’t say a thing, and didn’t really need to.

You slipped away from your band mates as they drank in the hotel bar, waiting outside for Keith to join you. He walked up just as a car pulled around the curb. “Did you tell Mick anything?”

“I tell him everything.” 

You sat in the middle seat this time, close to him. Neither of you could breathe. “So you’re close?”

“He’s the only friend I’ve ever had. Only thing we don’t agree on is the band.” He joked, hand resting on his leg. The outer edge of his pinky brushed your leg and you both looked at it, silently begging that he grab your thigh. “Why?”

“I don’t know, I just didn’t expect it. I don’t tell my friends anything.”

“Haven’t you known them for…”

“Six years. I was sixteen when we all met.” 

“Long time not to talk.” 

“Yeah.”

“You lonely?”

“I guess. It doesn’t bother me much.” You shrugged, “it’s easy.”

“It’s not easy for me. I need people more than I should.”

The beach was only a few miles away, empty due to the time of night and the chilly weather. You didn’t mind the cold, even growing up in the desert, as you’d worn proper jeans this time and a jacket. Somehow, Keith managed to start a fire with a few pieces of driftwood and some trash left around. You clapped upon it lighting a serious flame, as it only took him a fucking hour of determined effort. Now he collapsed on a shaggy blanket with you, out stretching his arm. You took the hint and laid your head on it. The gesture spread joy across his face like butter, he couldn’t contain it. His hand found its way into your thick hair and fiddled with the ringlets. 

“I don’t like girls often. I mean I love women, but I don’t really get them.”

“You’d think you were a serial philanderer with how the media covers you all.”

“I know,” he snickered, “Mick calls me the virgin. I fuck even less than Charlie. Mostly because of Anita, but it’s not like she doesn’t go around on me every tour. I guess it wouldn’t matter if I did.” 

You buried a smile in his jacket. As if he couldn’t get more adorable. “You have girls lining up to give it to you. Why not?”

“I dunno.” He muttered, embarrassed. “I can’t… get into it… sometimes. I, uh, it’s just more special to me and I don’t enjoy it if I don’t know the person. Not like Mick, you know.”

“I get it,” you felt the fire again, pulsing in your lower half. You needed him. “Listen.” You rolled onto your stomach, and rested your chin on his chest. He propped himself up on his elbows and looked down at you, eyes half open. God, he was just waiting for you to do it, wasn’t he?

“I haven’t liked anyone since… I don’t feel things often. I want to be around you, and that’s hard for me to accept. But I wanted you to know,” you smiled, mockingly echoing his words from the first night. “I want to kiss you.” 

He practically pounced on you, rolling you to your back and smashing your teeth together. The shock and weight of him pushed something like a moan from your lips, he clamped his hand around the back of your neck, as if to pull you closer. His tongue snakes into your mouth, warm and tinged with the bite of Parliament’s. You pushed your hips into him, legs trapping him from pulling away. After a few, glorious minutes, he pulled his head back. You both panted, breath billowing in clouds. You could feel his excitement pressing into your lower thigh. 

“You’re the most beautiful thing,” his eyes flickered over your face, “I have ever seen.”

Your heartbeat in your face. “I want you,” you whined, pulling him close again. He kissed from your chin to your neck. His lips behind your ear, his hot breath… you couldn’t breathe. “Please.”

“You begging?” He sat up a bit, grinning down from hooded eyes. Oh shit, you were. With all the strength you could muster, you pushed him to the sand. He laid, head in the dirt, giving no resistance as you straddled his stomach and sat straight up. “Do you want me to?” 

He ran his hands up the back of your thighs. “You gonna let me love you someday?” 

“I could love you right now.” You slid your hand behind your back, dangerously close to the mound straining against his skinny pants. 

“No,” he grinned, “I don’t mean fucking.”

“How could you not mean fucking?” You joked.

“I mean… are you going to break my heart?” He asked earnestly, completely unresponsive when your hand moved to his crotch. Usually that would shut a guy up, but he was unshakeable.

“I don’t know.” You were honestly unsure, and you didn’t feel like making false promises. “Don’t let me.”

“I can’t help it. You’re it.” He pulled your neck down for another kiss. You slid your hips down to his and ground them together. He groaned. “Quit, you tart.” 

“What, you saving yourself?” 

He chuckled, “you’re a minx. If I let you have your way, I’m doomed.”

“I’m offering you sex on the beach and you want to… wait?” You furrowed your brow. 

He blinked. “Fuck.” He was just as surprised as you were. “Yeah, I do.”

Shit, he wasn’t teasing. It was oddly gratifying that he didn’t just want to get it in, but you were so hot under the collar it felt like a slap in the face. He wouldn’t even finger you? 

“Okay…” you slid off of him. He sat up, shaking the sand from his hair. “So we’ll wait.” But for what? A sign from heaven that you should make it? Getting married?

“Okay.” He nodded. He sensed your disappointment. “I want to, so much. It’s just… I don’t want it to be cheap, give you the wrong impression of this. I think you could mean a lot to me.” 

You did have two months to get to know each other. Fucking on the first date and discarding men had become old hat to you. This felt foreign, uncomfortable. What were you besides a body to offer and a relationship to deny them? His words were so genuine, it reassured you just enough to kiss him again. “Fine. I’ll wait this time.” 

You laid there for a long time, bodies tangled, until the fire went cold. Your eyes scrunched with bright light. Keith groaned in his sleep and his warm arm left you unbearably cold. You blinked awake, trying to remember where you were. Fuck.

You woke Keith with a shout. “What time is it?”

He groaned again and covered his eyes. In a groggy haze, he mumbled and sat up, glancing around with squinted eyes. “We passed out?”

“We passed out, and we’re supposed to be in Oakland by two.” You urged him to catch the drift and grabbed his wrist. “You don’t have a watch?”

“Guess not.” He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his jacket and offered you one before standing. “Come on kid, we’ll figure it out.” His ease about the matter of beach stranding was somehow calming to you, and you trailed through the sand to the lifeguard station for a phone. He called collect for a car to pick you up and then seated himself on the curb. 

You stood, looking back to the water. He pulled your hand, bidding you sit. He wrapped an arm over your shoulder and kissed your temple. “Can’t be more than eight. Look at the sun. It’s cool, babe.” You nodded, leaning all your weight into his side and humming, “okay.”

The silence between the two of you wasn't tense anymore, it was soft and tender. Meant to be. When you faced him, he scanned over your face a moment before brushing a kiss over the bridge of your nose, the apple of your cheek, the top of your forehead. A skittish laugh bubbles from your lips and then he kissed those too. Of course, it could’ve been a peck, but you couldn’t help but dart your tongue between his lips and pry them open. Your mouths tasted stale and you didn’t mind a bit. He slipped a hand in your coat to the back of your shirt and pulled a handful of it, then maneuvered it from where it was tucked to snake up your back. The rumble of a car approaching didn’t register until it honked for attention. You pulled away. “Let’s jam, cowboy.”

The hotel was buzzing with activity, and you tried your best to downcast your gaze. You couldn’t imagine the state of yourself. Keith didn’t seem bothered at all, gloriously mussed as usual, thumb slipped on your back belt loop.

“See you in a flash.” He planted another kiss on the top of your head when the elevator reached your floor. It felt like a dream, gliding back to your room. And just like a dream, you awoke abruptly. “Where the fuck have you been?” Donnie shouted. “We’ve been calling around for hours, looking for your body in the gutter, you had us worried sick!”

You scanned the room for confirmation, only to get a simple “you look shitty” from behind Frances’ open magazine. 

“I’m gonna shower. When do we leave?” You breezed past Donnie. 

“Two hours. You may wanna hold off for a minute,” Clem handed you his cup of coffee and gestured for you to sit. “We got a review.”

“A review?”

“A real one. In Rolling Stone.” 

They all looked at you waiting for a response you didn’t really have. “And?” You urged, supremely irritated by the suspense.

Frances held the magazine up to ask your much needed attention and cleared his throat. “The Cult of Souls, a group of twenty-somethings from Phoenix, Arizona, are the emerging antithesis of flower power. In a stream of anti-war questioning and experimental ideals, they sing of sacrifice and metaphorical cannibalism. With hard rock’n’roll hooks, their frontwoman, accurately deemed The Goddess, spins tales of forbidden fruit and ancient gods. Named for Dyonisian rituals, the group nails a psycho-sexual album to the charts, calling for a release to primitive madness. Poetic and painfully beautiful, the wailing vocals of the Goddess transcend typical themes of love, death, and sex. In a time where the Beatles are credited with defining the youth, The Cult offers a path of absolute ecstasy that extends beyond generations. It is more than rock, better described as a psychedelic exorcism. The Goddess leaves you to answer the question: what are we if not slaves to the flesh?”

They were still waiting for some kind of response. You were beside yourself. “I- holy shit…” you clamped a hand to your mouth. “Holy shit!”

“I fucking know right?” Jonesie bursted, “you should’ve been here this morning when they brought it, Clem dropped a whole bottle of Listerine!”

“I’m- I don’t even know what to say.” You whispered. “Out of this fucking world.”

You floated all through the day. You wanted to show Keith, but couldn’t find it within you to walk up to his room and face his band, especially Mick, after neither of you could be found this morning. 

After the trip to the next tour stop, you were called into some dinky studio for a local radio interview and then dropped at the stadium you were playing that evening. After a quick practice you decided to do some writing, if only you could find a quiet place. The wonder of an older theatre was always in their abundance of rooms, often beneath the place. You wandered aimlessly, pen between your teeth. The hall was getting darker, but you couldn’t see an end. It started getting unnervingly quiet. 

Your body was dragged to the right so quickly you couldn’t scream. The synapses in your brain were too slow to activate your reflexes and you fell into a wall. A wall of flesh. And there he was, grinning at you like a cat. “Keith!” You gasped, shaking your arm for freedom. He didn’t let go, pinning you gently with his knee. 

“What are you doing down here?” 

You blinked, suddenly unsure. You threw it back at him, “what are you doing down here?”

He shrugged. “Hangin’.”

Yeah, sure. “How’d you know it was me?”

He slid a hand up your side, wrapping the length of his hand over your ribs. “You were humming.”

Were you? The adrenaline drained to your feet and you relaxed in his hold. “Pretty weird place for hanging. You doing drugs?”

He grunted and attempted to persuade you away from questioning with a kiss. Effective. You opened your mouth to him and he all but lifted you from the floor. His knees braces against the wall between your legs and you coiled your legs around his thin hips. He tasted like something bitter, sharp. Coke. Not that you hadn’t dabbled of course, but you didn’t understand him hiding it down here. They’d had powder on the dinner table almost every night. 

“Keith,” your throat thrummed when he turned his attention to sucking little spots on your neck. God you’d give anything to get fucked in this greasy shithole. “Come on,” you groaned and tried to wiggle a hand between you, pawing for his pants.

He tightened your bodies to the wall. “Mind yourself,” he warned.

Fine. Fuck him. You pulled the hem of your shirt up, a tug-of-war between his chest and yours. He pulled away from your throat. You knew you had him, he let you enough room to bare your tits to him. “Minx.” He muttered, scanning over them like they were a Reader’s Digest. You swung your legs down and he let you stand on your own. Unexpectedly, he stepped back. 

Just staring.

You upped the ante and pulled it off completely, tossing it to a stained floor. “You can touch me.” 

“I know,” he was silent for a moment. “You’re perfect.”

You rolled your eyes. This was worse than that time Jonesie creamed his pants with you in his lap. “I want you to touch me,” you said firmly. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and stepped forward, slowly. Too slow.

Your thighs clenched. He put his hands on your stomach, flat. They slid with all the urgency of an arthritic knitter, cupping the bottom and then brushing his thumbs over your nipples. Your breath hitched in your throat when he squeezed. He dropped his face to yours and just rested his forehead against you. You’d think he was bored if he wasn’t breathing so heavily, hands kneading harder into your flesh. You whined your appreciation and tried again for his bulge. He didn’t stop you this time. 

You pressed a kiss to his collarbone. “Can I?”

He didn’t respond but pressed into your touch. The belt was a little hard to work with one hand but it came free and you moved in the free space. No underwear. The skin was hot and soft, a little wet with sweat. Your fingers just barely met around the base, working in slow turns. He gripped your chest with a vice, more steadying himself than fondling you. He cursed and you pushed his pants down for more room, spitting into your other hand and switching. He was yours now, and with the reigns you felt a surge of confidence. “What do you want?”

He groaned behind closed lips, then breathed, “mouth. Your mouth.” 

You slid your back down, balancing on the back of your feet rather than your knees. Your thumb rubbed the bottom of the tip, you looked up. He glowered down from lidded eyes and watched you wrap your lips around him. One hand tangled in the back of your hair, the other against the wall, he curled his hips forward and you rocked your head until your throat loosened up. Usually guys closed their eyes, but he couldn’t tear his from you. Your head rested against the wall and you pulled him closer, deeper into your mouth. The pressure made your eyes water, but he couldn’t stop thrusting when he started. After another minute or two, when you were finally suppressing your gags, he pulled out sharply, a trail of thick drool still connecting you. He started pumping his cock, still staring. Your lips pulsed with their own heartbeat, spit shiny over your cheeks and chin. “Fuck,” he popped a thumb into your open lips, you let it rest there as he released on your chest.

It was all heavy breathing for a few moments as your conscious minds returned. He pulled you up by your wrist and kissed your mouth, seemingly uncaring about the mess you were spreading on his shirt. “It’s… been a while.” He tried to explain himself, but decided to go with “you could drive a man insane with those lips.” He buried his face in your hair, seeming to take a deep sniff of it. 

After a bit of recovery, you tried to assemble yourselves, him pulling off his t-shirt to clean the both of you and leaving it on the floor. You tucked your shirt back in. “We’re in Rolling Stone magazine.” You walked down the hall hand in hand. “Yeah? How’s it feel?” He swung your arms. 

“Like I got my dick sucked.” You joked and he laughed. “It was good?” “Real good.” “Well, damn,” he grinned, “you gonna forget me when you’re a big star?”

“Not if you keep up.”

He stopped you, again, holding your chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I wanna take you out tonight.” 

“You said that last night,” you rolled your eyes. 

“No, I mean somewhere nice. We can go to dinner.”

You faked thinking it over a moment. “Will there be wine?”

“I swear you’ll leave with blood alcohol poisoning.”


	4. 4

The show that evening lit you up like no other, and at one point you couldn’t stand the difference between you and the crowd. You were lost in their warmth, the sound of Clem’s guitar, and the coke you sucked up during sound check. You dove back first into the audience, and they passed you like a coffin. The hands were sweaty, hot, and seemed to grip you like they didn’t want to let go. With the waves of the ocean, you swayed with them and their vitality fed you.

It could’ve gone on for minutes or hours, you weren’t certain which, but you found yourself back on the stage and struggling to get your sea legs back. Maybe you were a bit too fucked up. When you grabbed the mic you nearly took the stand down with it and sang with such strength your core ached.

This time, when the song ended there was a moment of silence. Then a sea of praise so intense the floor rumbled under you. 

The boys went ahead of you, leaving the spotlights and allowing you to bask in the undivided attention of hundreds of lovers. You reached down to grab a girl’s hand and twenty shot out to you. You ignored them and focused on her young, bewitched face. She was stricken. Feeling overcome with the need to share the immensity of what you were feeling, you knelt and kissed her head. It wasn’t something you had done before, but it felt right. Like you were bestowing a gift. You really felt godly. And now she would too. 

Security nipped the growing insanity in the bud and ushered you off stage. Per usual, the Stones’ were still watching, waiting for their time. 

“You’re dynamite!” Mick crooned and somewhat ambushed you with an embrace. You couldn’t help but smile and allow it. Nothing could bring you down. Over his shoulder you caught Keith’s eyes. He wasn’t quite smiling, mouth hanging open thoughtlessly and much like a child. He looked the same as that girl had. Entranced. 

Very suddenly you decided that you didn’t care how anyone perceived you, what they would think of you hitching your train to his, or whether it was a huge mistake altogether. You moved right from Mick to him. He clumsily caught you and let his hand land too low on your back to be respectable. His friend’s knew how he was with women. It couldn’t have been an accident.

“I’ll see you later!” You playfully smacked his side and disentangled to run off. He still had the same silly look on his face. 

You hadn’t noticed your bandmates were waiting just down the way and had seen you. They weren’t idiots either. You would hardly initiate a hug with some stranger. Donnie and Jonesie, blissful simpletons, seemed like they were putting a puzzle together. Francis didn’t seem to care at all. Clem’s expression was tight-jawed, maybe disappointed. 

They didn’t give you a minute to recover. 

“Are you fucking Keith Richards?” Donnie blurted as you made your way from the noisy audience. 

“No.” You answered flatly. “We’ve talked a few times.”

“Talked? You don’t talk! You’re not a talker! What do you talk about?” Jonesie grabbed your shoulders from behind and shook you as you walked. 

You laughed and simply answered “everything.” 

“Oh my god, you slut! You did fuck him. He’s got the ‘I fucked he’d’ face! I know that face.” 

“Shut up, Jones.” Francis cut in.

The suite was already a wreck, suffering greatly in the few hours you’d been there. Jonesie and Donnie pressed more about what had happened, very painstakingly piecing together where you had snuck off to the first night and the last. 

“What’s your deal? You don’t make friends.”

“Yeah, we’re the only people that can stand you.”

“Fuck off.” You undressed without shame and walked into the bathroom. They stood outside the door and badgered you with questions, argued with each other, and resolved to do more coke when they got bored waiting for you to finish your shower. 

You put on the kind of makeup a normal girl would wear, sans a dark semi circle line in the crease of each eyelid for emphasis. By the time you were done the boys had forgotten their hang up on who you were or were not fucking, preoccupied with tearing apart a room service cart. You dressed and sat on the edge of the bed. 

Should you call Keith’s room? Wait outside of it? Stay here? There was probably another half hour at least before he’d even be done with the show, but you were painfully anxious.

“If anyone comes by, I’m on the roof.” You grabbed a worn hand bound journal, your songbook, as an excuse to leave. They didn’t have time to challenge it, but you knew they were onto exactly what you were doing. Well, Francis and Clement were. 

You smoked three cigarettes before bothering to open the journal and write something down to distract yourself from your nerves. By the third line, your fingers couldn’t keep up with how quickly your mind was working. You hummed a tune mindlessly to test something out in your head, scrapped it, crossed out a huge section, wrote in the margins and- 

“That looks mad.” 

You started, heart bouncing from your ribs to your throat like a ping pong ball. “Fuck! You snuck up on someone sitting on the edge of a building?” 

Keith ignored it. His shirt was visibly damp with sweat. “What are you doing out here? It’s cold.”

“How’d-“

“Went by the room before they all went out. Donnie told me where you ran off to. You know, I think they’re onto us.”

You closed your notebook. “I don’t care.” Too defensively. Damn.

“Come down from there.” He held his hand held out to you, face slanted in a smile. You could’ve jumped on him.

“No. You come here.” You gestured to your side. 

“I’m not terribly keen on heights.” He came closer, wrapping his arms around the front of your waist, strapped to you like a parachute. 

“Shame. It’s good to be afraid.” 

He was quiet a moment and then tapped the cover of your journal. “This looks like a lunatic’s ramblings.” 

“They are.” You leaned your weight back into him and looked out on the city. This was comfortable. This was right.

“I promised you dinner.”

“You did. I don’t mind staying in.” You tilted your head back so that it rested on his shoulder, faces unbearably close but too awkwardly angled to kiss.

“Tempting, after your performance in the cellar.”

You tried to fight the smile that twitched on your lips. “What were you doing down there? It was pretty convenient. Like reverse stalking.”

“Drugs.”

“I figured that much, but why hide it?”

“I wasn’t hiding the drugs. I was just… hiding. Like you’re doing now.”

Fair enough, you thought. “Let’s stay in. I have something to show you.”

He let your waist loosen from his grip enough for you to scoot back from the edge and onto your feet. “Are you going to test my fidelity again?”

“What fidelity?” You scoffed. “I won’t jump your bones again. Unless you ask for it.”

“Don’t know that I trust myself not to.” His voice was low, mumbling almost. It stirred your stomach into knots.

“Pity.” You chose to ignore his teasing and led the way back to your room. “It’s a song. I want your help.”

You couldn’t see his face as he walked behind you, but the two fingers he snagged in your back belt loop were reassuring. You’d almost felt embarrassed to ask, but repeating a drunken night of listening to his guitar sounded much better than a stuffy dinner. 

“You don’t care whether the lads know, right?” 

“That we’re playing something? No, they’d love it.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He pulled your belt loop to stop you from walking down the stairs. You turned to face him, his hand brushing the side of your face and landing on your neck.

You stared at one another, unsure of which would speak first. “I don’t know. I don’t know how I feel.”

“About me?”

“About anything. I don’t want to be written off as some groupie.”

“No one would think that of you.” His thumb stroked your jaw. “I don’t take things like this…. I don’t take you lightly. But if this isn’t what you want I need you to figure it out soon because-“ he cut himself off and chewed his cheeks for a moment, running through his next words. “I think you could be something. To me, that is. I don’t know you well but I want to. I want to know you as well as you’ll let me.”

Your heart was beating like a rabbit’s. “I’ve never done this.”

“I think it would be a sorry mistake not to try.”

God, he was right. You hugged him from the lower step, face buried in the middle of his stomach. “Okay.” It was barely there, muffled by his shirt, but it was what you both needed to hear.

When you looked up again, his expression was so painfully tender you felt you were choking back tears. He made you feel weak. He kissed the top of your head, fingers brushing through both sides of your hair. “Okay. Let’s get to it then.” 

Hours later, the two of you were sprawled in a mess of papers and silver serving dishes. You’d drained a bottle of wine between the two of you. “I like that key, let’s try it again.” You said before taking another swig and clearing your throat. 

He played a low, repetitive riff. “How many words are left to spell,” you closed your eyes, words already memorized from your previous attempts. 

“Until you send me back to hell  
It never rains but it pours  
And love is just a word  
Still moving in a circle  
Left with all those words I cannot spell  
If love is just a word  
I wish that I never have heard.” 

You hum with the notes he plays. When he stops, you look at each other. You had become accustomed to how deep his gaze was, and so the infatuation that had grown in it was tangible. You could reach out and touch his affection. So, you did.

He all but threw his guitar to the side as soon as you closed in, pulling you by the base of your neck. Your mouths were slick with wine and tobacco musk. You slid into his lap and his hands raced over your back and legs. His kiss was hungry this time, all teeth and tongue. 

“Keith,” your breath was shallow, “touch me.” You directed his hands to your jeans. They were big enough to nearly wrap around your hips. 

“I can’t.” He pulls his hands back to your side, but continues kissing your neck. You whine in frustration and push him by the chest. He falls back easily and rests his head against the foot of the bed. His expression is indiscernible. 

You’re sure he can read yours like a book. “Why don’t you want to fuck me?”

“Oh, love. You know it isn’t that. I’m just… I’m thinking of Anita. My girlfriend.” 

His girlfriend. Not the mother of his child, his girlfriend. You weren’t sure why the title bothered you now, even after all the things he’d said to you. And then it hit you. You were a fun new broad, but he had something at home. He had a family. “Right. How silly of me.” You couldn’t mask your bitterness, attempting to stand up. 

He grabbed your arms, and in your drunken unsteadiness you slumped back down into his lap. “Please don’t be upset. I want to end it. I will end it. I just have things to sort out. I’ve got to make sure my son is taken care of, that we’re completely over. She’s not a bad woman. I just don’t love her. And that’s my fault, not hers.”

“And what, I just wait around while you do that?” You felt your throat begin to tighten. He was so earnest and kind, demonstrating much more empathy than you’d have guessed a man was capable of, but you still felt rejected. 

“I hope you will.” He spoke softly, genuinely. 

You wanted to hate him. You really, really did. But he was absolutely golden. You locked mouths again, more gently this time, and did your best to ignore the hard-on that pressed into you. 

“What,” you interrupted yourself to bite his ear. “Would you consider the… hard boundary to be?”

He groaned. “We can’t have sex. Not yet.” 

“But I can suck your dick? That’s not cheating?” 

“Moment of weakness.” He kissed your clavicle, thoughtlessly enabling your behavior. 

“If you can’t touch me… can you watch?” You whispered and reached for your own belt. He looked up at you, eyes burning holes through your skull. You couldn’t tell if he was daring you to go further or telling you to stop. The belt clinked to the rug and you unbuttoned your jeans as slowly as you could, giving him time to decline. 

When he didn’t, you stood and slipped your pants off completely. He laid back against his elbows and stared up, mouth hanging open. “I’m soaked.” You brushed your fingers over the wet spot on your panties. “Do you wanna see?”

All he could do was nod. You slipped them down and let them slide down to your ankles. You stepped around him and laid on the bed. Keith nearly scrambled to get up and sit on the edge. You smiled and couldn’t help but giggle a bit. “I don’t usually have an audience.” You could feel your cheeks heat up as the realization of what you were doing seeped through your drunken haze. 

“S’okay. I can help.” He ran fingers over your inner thigh and stomach. 

Ah, so it seemed the boundary was strictly penis in vagina. He didn’t consider fingering you or cumming on your tits cheating. Good to know. At the moment, you didn’t care very much. Your own fingers reached down to rub between the lips, coating them in your wetness. 

His gaze was locked, gripping your thigh tighter. You rubbed yourself gently until it didn’t feel awkward anymore. In fact it felt amazing. Your free hand pulled your shirt up to your chin. “You’re so beautiful.” He murmured. You gasped when his fingers tried to replace your own. He crawled to a position between your legs, and you let him take control.

He was gentle with his much larger fingers. You could feel the roughness in them, calluses. “Keith,” you moaned, pulling yourself down by the knees, beckoning him deeper. 

The room was filled with your little noises, and he was losing his restraint. He pulled your hips up at an angle to a punishing rhythm. You were lost in it, unaware of the noises you were making or the way he was staring at you or his own little grunts. “Fuck.” He dropped to his stomach and pulled you to his mouth. You took the Lord’s name in vain. The way his tongue lapped at your clit was maddening. 

Your back arched away from the mattress as a white-hot coil grew in pelvis. You said something like his name, hands tangling in his greasy hair. Your legs tensed and your body contracted, sucking in air and throwing your head back. He put a few fingers in, letting you ride it out with a steady rhythm. When you couldn’t take any more, you pulled his hand away. “Kiss me.” Your voice was like that of a petulant child, overwhelmed and exhausted. 

He obliged, crawling up to lay on top of you. His mouth was salty and wet with you. “You’re a quick one, huh?” He teased. 

“I don’t think a man’s ever made me cum.”

“You’re just flattering me.”

“No, I’m serious.” You sat up a bit. “You are a very talented man.” 

He grinned like a proud schoolboy. “I’m a sensational fuck. Or so I hear.” 

“Funny,” you pushed him from his side to his back. “So am I.”

“Oh, I’m sure of it” He let you undo his pants, having completely forgotten his terms of partial faithfulness. 

“You have a great cock too.” 

“You’re filthy.” He looked painfully hard. A few minutes longer without relief and he might’ve passed out from blood loss. You didn’t waste time. Your tongue laid flat to the base, you licked the full length before folding your lips around him. He groaned and cursed.

The urge to crawl up his body and ride him to hell was overwhelming. You felt the sloppiness drip down your inner thigh. This time he was more sensitive, twitching when your tongue flicked the underside of the head. It was almost as fun as getting tongue fucked yourself. You enjoyed watching him fall to pieces for you, eyes closed tight and mouth open in a silent moan. 

You kissed all the way down and raked the pointed tip of your tongue around his balls in circles, pumping his cock in a firm rhythm. Before either of you expected he slurred your name and shot his load inside of your hand. You cleaned him with a gentle suck and he shuddered before sitting up on his elbows. You licked cum from your hand and wiped the rest on the bed. 

You smiled at each other, goofy and red-faced, and crawled to meet halfway down the bed. He slung his arms around you. “I’ll call her tomorrow.” He murmured. 

“You shouldn’t do it over the phone.”

“She’s a sea away.”

You chewed on your lip, suddenly feeling sorry for her. She was about to lose one of the best men you’d come across in your twenty two years. “I guess it makes sense. Do you think she’ll be okay?”

“She’s strong.”

“And your son?”

“He’ll be strong too.”

“Do you want to be there for him?”

“I think I do. I’m not sure it would be for his benefit or mine. I’ll make sure he’s taken care of.” His voice was quiet. You kissed his jaw and rose, eager to change the subject. “We should clean up.” You lit a cigarette, passed it to him, and lit another for yourself. He didn’t move from his spot, watching you pick up papers and trays and glasses. 

“There are maids for that.” He blew smoke from his nostrils. You looked up to find him lecherously studying your naked body.

“No need to make it hard on them. I hate a mess.” You downed the last of the wine bottle before discarding it. 

“Come back to bed.” 

You pulled the cigarette from your mouth. “I can’t. I’ve got to get going.” 

He laughed in outrage. “This is your room?”

“You can make me orgasm and it only makes me want more. I can’t lay back down.” You admitted and began redressing your bottom half. 

“I can do it again.”

“No. I want to fuck you. Badly.” His smile dropped. You could see his cock twitch, but these were his rules. He deserved a bit of payback. “Get dressed, I’m going to take a shower.” 

You ran the water cold to restore some semblance of willpower. The door creaked open and you smiled to yourself. “Don’t even think about it.”

“What, you’ve gone prudish now? I have to rinse off too.” 

He pulled the curtain open without asking and stepped in. “Jesus Christ! Is this penance? Fucking freezing.” He jumped, reaching for the temperature control. You hadn’t seen him fully undressed yet, in all his glory. He was thin to the bone, much like Francis and Donnie, but it worked for him. His skin was a smooth white and blemish free, a spattering of hair that trailed from his chest to his hips. 

You ran your hands over him as he seems to be admiring your body just the same. “You’re perfect.” You felt yourself speaking, hardly audible against the water stream. You weren’t one for compliments but you could help it. 

He edged you towards the hot water so that it ran over your faces, and then held you tight. His arms wrapped over your neck, yours on his waist. These few days with him had given you more comfort, security, and excitement than months of relationships with other men. It was silly to think of how short it had really been, but it felt like a lifetime already. Maybe that’s why you felt so strongly that you were making the right choice, in spite of your better judgement. You were sure he felt the same way. 

“Keith.”

“Mm?”

“I’m trusting you with a lot.”

“I know.”

“Don’t fuck me over. Please.” 

He was silent momentarily and then kissed your head. “I’ll do my best.”

Somehow, that was better than an outright promise.


	5. 5

You arrived in your home town of Phoenix, Arizona severely hungover. The previous night in San Diego had ended in a bus ride rather than a flight, in which you all spent seven hours drinking and smoking and snorting crushed up pills you couldn’t remember the name of. At a rest stop near the border you hopped out to stretch your legs and use facilities that didn’t vibrate you off the toilet. Something exploded near the outside of the door that you were sure was gunfire, only to pop your head out and find your bafoonish company shooting one another with Roman Candles. 

You ran out, too drunk play the mother role as you often did when the boys got too rowdy, and screamed for one. As soon as Francis handed you one, a burning hot shock erupted over your back. Jonesie looked immediately apologetic when you spun to him. “Oh, you’re fucked.”

Mick cackled and ducked when you pointed your shot at Jones. “You’re a regular Annie Oakley!”

You weren’t done. Jonesie had tripped and tried to recover by grabbing Mick’s leg for support, only to topple both of them. The soles of your feet hardly touched the ground as you ran for them, squatting over Jones and raining your fists on him. Your stomach hurt from laughing but you could stop. “Get her!” Jones shouted. “Help!”

Mick had rolled away enough to grab you from behind. You flipped onto your back too easily and he tickled you. It was almost vomit inducing. The stars above his head seemed to be rippling like the deep sea. You were so out of breath, so cramped, you couldn’t struggle anymore. Your back burned against the asphalt. 

He finally let you free and you just laid still, watching Donnie and Francis light sparkles. “Where’d you get ‘em?”

“Selling them in the petrol station.” Mick replied, dropping to his ass on the ground beside you.

You watched in hazy fascination. And then you met eyes with Keith. He leaned against the side of the bus, cigarette in his mouth. You smiled. He didn’t smile back. 

“I see why he’s sweet on you.” Mick suddenly spoke. He didn’t bother to lower his tone on account of the shrieking and yelling of the men around the parking lot. “Anyone could. You haven’t had a go on any of those boys?”

You audibly groaned. That didn’t warrant a response. 

“Just wondering. He’s a good lad. The best of them, actually.”

You again didn’t speak, trying to catch Keith’s eyes again. He didn’t look right. Was he upset with you? He glanced your way, then to Mick, and turned his whole body to face Charlie. 

“He’s got a woman, you know.”

“I know.”

“A baby.”

“I heard.”

“Shagging a married man doesn’t bother you?” 

“They’re not married.” You snapped. Fuck. His toothy grin slimed across his face. He’d caught you.

“So that’s it then, eh? A little ride for the tour?”

You don’t remember choosing to hit him. It just sort of happened. Your right arm, your strong arm, swung around and clocked him in the nose. Hard. The blood was rushing in your ears, making the “Oh shit!” someone shouted seem far away. Mick was bleeding into his hands and cursing. 

You stood up and nearly fell back down as soon as you did. The rage hadn’t left your system, you thought about kicking Mick while he was down. Clement had run to you, pulling you back by your small shoulders. “You fucking idiot!”

“Bitch!” Mick wobbled to his feet and Bill threw himself under his shoulder for support. 

“I’m sorry.” You mumbled, unconvincingly. 

“The hell was that for?” Jonesie yelled. Francis and Clem were already dragging you back onto the bus. You passed Keith, looking at him out of habit, not because you wanted to see the consequence of your actions. And god damn it if he didn’t almost smile. 

“Are you trying to ruin this?” Clement sat you down on the bench seat roughly. You leaned your head to the wall. “I’m sorry.” You really couldn’t say much else. 

“What did he do?” Francis sat on the pull out table in front of you. Ever collected, he seemed genuinely concerned. You’d calmed down in recent years and hadn’t been in a brawl for months. 

“Nothing. I didn’t mean to hit him.”

“That wasn’t a fucking love tap, you broke his nose. He’s a singer! They’ll kick us off.”

“They won’t take us off the billing, Clement.” Francis soothed him. “It will be fine. You-“ he grabbed your fist, now a blister-y red, “will apologize. For real. You’re done drinking. And whatever you’re doing with Keith… cool it.” 

You bit down on your lip. This was humiliating.

The tone had shifted completely when people filed back into the bus. “Ain’t broken.” Charlie announced first. “Strong arm, lovey.” By his joking manner this likely wasn’t the first time someone had walloped Mick Jagger.

He took a seat, air thin tissue from the gas station restroom wadded in his nose. It didn’t seem to be bleeding much at all. He looked like a freshly spanked child, pouty lips pressed tight and eyebrows furrowed. 

“I’m really sorry, Mick. That wasn’t called for.” You offered as sincerely as you could.

He looked at you from under hooded eyes and just nodded in agreement. “He’ll forget it by tomorrow.” Charlie waived you off and took a seat. Keith was the last to board. This time he was smiling for sure. Boldly, he sat right next to you. And laid his arm behind your neck. 

Collectively, everyone’s suspicion was confirmed. Then someone laughed. Then someone else laughed. Keith’s chest shook beside you and you could help but giggle. Even Mick cracked a smile. 

By the next morning, it was in fact forgotten. The throbbing pressure in your skull overwhelmed everything else.

“Here, chick. Best cure.” Charlie apparated a glass of red something. You downed it without question. It was spicy, and thicker than expected. You made a gagging noise and laid your head back down on the table. You’d fallen asleep there, along with Keith and Bill. 

“Raw egg, pepper, gin, orange juice.” Charlie recited a list of ingredients and set another one in front of Keith. You felt like gagging again, but thanked him instead. 

“What time is it?”

“Seven.” Francis fished around in the cooler for something.

“We in Phoenix?” 

“Just about.” 

You shouldered Keith lightly. He didn’t wake, so you let him be. Everyone else was still asleep, leaning against the nearest flat surface or on one another. It was prime time to slip into the bathroom and try to get yourself together. The headache had subsided just enough to be manageable. You splashed water over your face, tied your rat’s nest hair above your head, and swished mouth wash around. The mirror was barely reflective, looking more like a sheet of tin than anything. You could only make out the general shape of yourself and figured it would have to do. 

The sun was far too bright when you unloaded from the bus. Everyone seemed to be nursing the same terrible hangover. 

Keith hooked his finger in your back belt loop, a comforting gesture you were now accustomed to. It still felt wrong to display any kind of acquaintanceship with him in front of the bands, but you could stomach it at least. Someone from the hotel had stopped everyone to hand out room keys. It seemed there were more rooms rather than just two suites this time. “Hey, c’mere.” He mumbled, directing you in the direction of the concierge as the rest headed for the elevators. He wrung the bell, then again impatiently as he waited for someone’s attention.

“Good morning, how can-“

“We need adjacent rooms. Can you make that happen?” He dangled his key in a way that made you wonder if he was still drunk. 

The young man behind the desk seemed to realize who Keith was, and seemed extremely flustered upon the discovery. “I- Yeah! Yes. I can. I can do that.”

“Brilliant.”

“You’ll be on a different floor than the rest, if that’s-“

“That’s perfect.” Keith cut him off and slipped his hand over your ass as if everyone behind you in the lobby couldn’t see him do it. You smiled at him, both of your eyes unreadable behind sunglasses. The boy came back with two new sets of keys and handed them over with nervous hands, as if he was trying not to make contact with either of your skin. “I love you, by the way. I mean your music. Both of you.” He spoke so awkwardly, you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Thanks. That’s sweet.” You were surprised he’d know you, though Keith was hard not to recognize. He’d been an international bad boy for years now. 

“Come by later and we’ll sign something for you, huh? Just keep it to yourself, no mates tagging along.” Keith was already walking away as he made the offer, holding your wrist loosely. “Adjacent rooms?” You questioned.

“Might need help washing my back.” He joked. 

As soon as the elevator was closed, he pulled his glasses. “Why’d you punch Mick?” You couldn’t discern his tone. Maybe it wasn’t all forgotten.

You felt your cheeks prickle the tiniest bit red. “He was just mouthing off.”

“What did he say?”

You briefly considered lying, pretending he just made an ill-received pass. “He… was fishing to find out if we… you know. And uh- it doesn’t make sense now that I hit him, but he talked about your, he mentioned- he referred to her as your wife. I think he said I’m just some ‘tour tail’.”

His jaw tightened. You quietly watched the elevator lights indicate you were closing in on your floor. “I would have licked him too. He doesn’t know anything.” Then he smiled, deep lines in the sides of his face. “You’ve got a helluva hook.”

He only produced a key for one of the rooms, so you just followed in and laid your bag on the floor and pulled your shirt off. “Will you stay here tonight? With me. In this room.” He seemed a bit nervous to ask. You fished for a clean top in your bag, seriously mulling it over. 

Keit sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward onto his knees and clasping his hands. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.” You stood up and took your hair down from the messy updo. “I’ll sleep with you.”

He grinned again, unable to help looking absolutely gassed. “Good. Okay.”


	6. 6

You held a joint rehearsal that day, as there was nothing better to do in Phoenix than drink and fuck around with instruments. The arena you booked was outdoors. There was no backstage, just a few trailers and a wide field of dead grass.

You and the boys sang an old country tune that played on the radio a lot when you were kids, and talked about all the wild things you’d done in the desert years ago. You kept catching Mick’s eyes and couldn’t decide if he’d forgiven you for last night or not. His nose wasn’t bruised, but you were sure his ego was. 

Overall he seemed like a nice guy. He fooled around with everyone, and was always making Keith laugh. You had a hard time shaking your initial feelings about anyone, though. Once someone rubbed you wrong, it stuck. You’d have to make an earnest effort to be more kind to him. 

At the end of the show, the lot of you decided to go out for dinner. They didn’t give you time to change, so you tried to wash the sweaty, caked make-up from your skin in a dirty bathroom. Your eyeliner and mascara had smudged into racoonish hollows, not unlike the look you sometimes did intentionally. Arizona wasn’t like anywhere else. The dry air seemed to attract the least tolerant and imaginative people. You didn’t feel much like being gawked at for your wild hair and skin-tight leather dress, nor the shitty makeup glued to your skin, but you didn’t have much choice. It was either turn in early or go out in stripper-chic. 

“We’re waiting on you, dumbass. Were you doing lines?” Donnie questioned as you slipped into the limousine.

“Do I look like I’m doing coke, Don?” You let your head fall back sleepily for emphasis.

“You need a bump?” Keith offered. You thought for a moment before nodding. He spread the powder across the flat inner edge of his palm and let you consume it. Fuck, it was strong. Your throat immediately went numb and your head buzzed from the base of your neck.

“Those who snort together stay toge- ow!” Donnie joked, cut off by a slap to the back of the head. Keith offered his vial their direction, to which everyone but Francis obliged. 

Mick was cutting his own huge line and Bill produced a bottle from nowhere. It only took a few minutes to really feel it. You’d done more cocaine since the tour began than you’d done your whole life. Though fun, it was too fucking expensive. Involuntarily your teeth clenched and you couldn’t keep up with the quick paced chatter and laughter around you. You leaned heavily into Keith, closing your eyes to ground yourself. 

“You’re beat, love. We can turn in early.” His voice was soft and quiet as ever. Even high off your ass, it made you want to sleep. 

“I’m fine.” You opened your eyes and found that he was almost leaning over your face, close enough to be considered PDA. 

“Right. Just tell me when you want to go.”

When you moved to Phoenix, you looked younger than your age. Some kids at school were able to sneak into bars, but you were stopped at the door. You had heard of Hannigan’s, an old haberdashery turned bar, and apparently it was the only club worth going to. You had been to much more happening places around the country since then, but something about returning to a place you’d coveted in your development was exciting. Or maybe it was just the coke.

The room was lit dimly with a warm glow, like gaslights. You were shown to a booth that felt more like an opera seat on the second level of the bar. The boys got to drinking, but you didn’t need anything else to feel good. 

Keith fished for a maraschino cherry from an empty drink and dangled it above your lips. You smiled, spreading them just enough to let him drop it in. Your lips closed around it unnecessarily, savoring the juice that gushed over them. 

“God damn.” Jonesie’s voice cut into Keith’s. You both looked at him across the table, staring at you. “My bad. Continue.” 

“Fuck off.” You shot at him and unashamedly snuggled closer to Keith. You could get used to this, being openly into someone, though it was scary to be so vulnerable. Especially with Mick’s words rattling in the back of your mind like a tin ball. The night was otherwise uneventful, aside from the usual belligerence of intoxicated young men. A stranger insisted on a picture, which sounded reasonable in your sorry states. Instead of looking forward, Keith pressed a kiss to your temple. When the bulb flashed, you moved your hand into his lap beneath the table. 

“Let’s get out of here.” You whispered, breath hot in his ear. 

He sat up straighter. “Right. Later lads.” He started to stand up, wobbling a bit on his feet.

“And where are you off to?” Mick called after him. 

“Tired. Turning in.” 

“Ah, ‘going to bed’. Classic.” Donnie teased. Clem looked at you disapprovingly as you left your seat. You ignored the teasing comments and started down the stairs. Keith steadied himself on the railing as he followed. It was never quite cold in Arizona, even in November, but it was pleasant. The breeze was refreshing, your high had begun to come down, and you decided in that moment that this was the man you were going to be with until he told you otherwise.

The thought must’ve materialized in your eyes. 

“What?” Keith smiled. 

“Nothing.”

“You’re thinking about something.”

“Aren’t you?” You challenged. He shrugged and looked at the street. You were waiting for a car to be flagged. 

“I’m thinking,” he held open the car door for you and slid in, “I want to get you into a bubble bath.” 

You beamed, “funny, I was thinking the same thing.”

In the blur of your inebriation, you couldn’t recall much of anything that happened between the ride to your hotel and splashing around in the tub between Keith’s legs. There wasn’t any liquid soap stocked, so the bubbles were unfortunately lacking. You felt completely euphoric in the warm water. Keith washed you with all the care and attention of a doting parent. For once you were more fucked up than him. 

“You really don’t want to be a father?” You asked suddenly, leaning your head back as he washed your long hair. 

He was quiet a long while before speaking, like he had to think about it. “Told you. I don’t think I’d be any good. I don’t want to hurt him.”

“And you don’t think your absence would hurt him?” The words flowed out like a river you couldn’t dam. “My mother left us. Left me. It still hurts me.”

You could feel him withdraw his hands from your scalp, hear his back land against the back of the tub. “I don’t know what I’m going to do. I haven’t got a clue, but it’s the only thing on my mind. Aside from you.” He threw the last bit in for good measure, as if you needed flattery. 

“Do you love him? The baby?”

“I- it felt right to hold him. It still seems like a dream. I can’t believe I made him. Suppose everyone feels that way the first time.” He absently played with the ends of your hair. “I feel like I’ve already fucked up by bringing him into the mess I made with Anita. Fucked up by being his father. He deserves better.”

You stood on your knees and turned, holding onto Keith’s shoulders for steadiness. His eyes were welled with tears that wouldn’t spill, looking up at you with the most vulnerability you’ve ever seen in a man. He was scared. 

“I’m not going to patronize you. I won’t tell you you’ll make a great father, because I don’t know what that would mean, or how that responsibility would feel. What I can say is that I’m an impeccable judge of character,” you both laugh, “and you are one of the most genuine and kind men I’ve ever met. He would be lucky to have you as father, and he deserves to have that opportunity.” 

He was without words, pulling you by the waist to cover him. When the water went cold and your fingers pruned, you finally dislodged yourselves and made your way to the bed in fluffy white robes. You didn’t bother dressing. Sleep came easily, to you at least, giving Keith the remainder of the night to watch you in wonder. After all he had done, the infidelity, the drugs, picking up and leaving his small family- why would the universe gift him an angel?

The next two weeks passed in a blur. You were, in all honesty, running on empty. You had gone on tours before but this was a different monster. The constant traveling and sleep deprivation was getting to you. None of your friends could perform with hangovers, so you drank or got high to get through it, and repeated the cycle the next night. The self-abuse was exhausting.

Keith and you had taken to working on songs at night rather than going out or engaging in other activities. That evening he was working on something with his guitar, mouth open as it always was when he played. You watched him in fascination from a perch on the windowsill.

“Hey, where’d you sneak off to earlier?”

“Huh?” He didn’t look up from his hands. “Oh. I was just picking something up.”

“What?”

“Curious cat.” He warned, and you pretended to drop it. You’d ask later. 

By now you would usually be irritated by sharing such close quarters with a person, especially a person you were romantically inclined towards. Something about your personality made you nitpick. Small things would start to upset you, but you weren’t confrontational in that way. Instead, you’d repress and let resentment build until you couldn’t stand to be around the person anymore. It was the exact opposite with Keith. Everything he did was cute, fun, endearing, exciting! You felt like you couldn’t get enough of him. Hell, you sat on the toilet seat while he showered just to talk.

“I’m tired.” You sighed, dropping your cigarette out of the window before closing it. He finally looked up and his face stretched in a deeply lined smile. You looked quite silly, one long sock pulled all the way up to your thigh and the other bunched around your ankle. One of his stained tank-tops clung to your more ample upper body, and a pair of ill-fitting red shorts you bought in Chicago squeezed your thighs. 

“Get into bed, angel. I won’t be up much longer.”

You sighed and hopped under the covers. They were much softer than the set you slept in the night before, and you fell asleep earlier than expected. He was quiet enough that you didn’t wake back up for another few hours. 

A glass clinked noisily. Your eyes fluttered to focus, lying on your stomach. Keith was sitting by the small table beside the window, back hunched. You watched him for a few seconds before realizing that he was shooting up. 

You knew he did drugs, all of you did them. However, they were party drugs, and in your mind there was a distinction. Everyone you’d know that was on a needle was dead or nearly. A pit in your stomach dragged you deeper into the sheets. You ice-cold concrete. Had he done this all along? Was he hiding it from you? Did anyone else know? His talk of being a shit father figure made sense now. Sitting up didn’t seem like an option, so you closed your eyes and pretended to sleep. He fumbled about a bit more, even more sloppily than before, and eventually dropped onto the bed with you. You felt his arm slide around your back, face in your neck and breath slow and deep. He must have already fallen asleep, but you were still anxious that he could hear your panicked breathing.

“Keith?” You whispered.

He didn’t respond. After a bit you wiggled away from him and to the bathroom. You splashed water on your face and stared at yourself without really looking. When you returned to bed, you couldn’t sleep. You watched him, closely, and placed a hand on his chest to feel his heartbeat. At the time, you didn’t know much about heroin. You thought he might die in his sleep, like so many of your friends. Eventually you must have nodded off, halfway sitting against the headboard. You woke with the light through your curtains, pleasantly greeted by a painful ache in the neck. 

You walked around in a fog all day. Even your performance was less exuberant than you were used to. When Keith stared off into space, slurred his words, or seemed even a bit off, you couldn’t shake the dread of knowing why. This wasn’t something you could look past. 

On the flight to New York, you held his head in your lap and stroked his hair while he slept. Mick sat across from the two of you nursing a bottle of champagne. Everyone seemed absorbed in something else, so you caught his attention with a light jab of your foot.

“Is he okay?”

He looked confused. “Sure, why not?”

After the show that evening, the lot of you were set to attend an upscale loft party. It wasn’t Warhol’s but someone associated closely with him. Honestly, you didn’t care much about art and you didn’t want to go out. Being trapped in the hotel room with him sounded even worse, so you began dressing up for the lesser evil.

Keith had begun to notice your absent mind. He leaned against the bathroom wall, watching you apply makeup. He zipped your dress, fingers grazing over the bare skin as he did. “What’s on your mind, love?”

You looked at him in the reflection. His caring expression became a nervous one. “You’re not tired of me already, are you?”

You shook your head. How could you ask him why he was doing this? Was it even your place to? “Do you enjoy this all?”

“What, this? You?”

“No, the band. Touring. Being Keith Richards.”

He smiled a bit, relieved your mood didn’t appear to be caused by him.

“It’s all I think I can do. I wasn’t going to work in a bank, now was I? I got lucky. I thought we’d play a few pubs a week until we split up for real work. Now I get paid to have a laugh with my dearest friends. I love this.”

You nodded, dropping your head. You stared at the sink and exhaled. “Keith, I can’t tell you what to do. I won’t ever tell you what to do. I won’t ask you to change. But I know what you’re doing and it scares the fuck out of me.” 

You couldn’t look up. He didn’t speak for a few breaths. When he did, his voice was low. “What am I doing?”

“I saw you last night.”

Again, silence. You could cut the air with a knife. 

He lit up a cigarette. When you looked up, his face was hard and his eyes were wide. “You want to leave then?” His voice was quiet and his lip seemed to barely fight off a waver like he might cry. His head always moved more when he was anxious, like it spine was a metal coil. 

“I’m not saying that at all.” You turned to face him. You found yourself growing angry, and it was hard not to shout. “I want to understand why.”

“Feels good.” He put simply.

Your eyes burned. You couldn’t help the emotion in your voice. “Doesn’t this feel good? Doesn’t living feel good? Keith, you might not die tomorrow, but it will happen. I’ve seen it.”

He didn’t say anything, but his hand shook when he drew from his cigarette again. 

“I told you, I can’t ask you to stop, not for me. But I can’t watch you kill yourself. I can’t share a bed knowing I might wake up to a corpse.” 

His eyes were red, but didn’t shed a tear. He even cracked a smile. “It was just a bit of fun.”

His dismissiveness was as good as a punch in the stomach. You were crying now, and couldn’t stop. “Is it fun now?” You stormed out of the bathroom. You hadn’t cried like this since your father’s funeral, and even then you didn’t let anyone see you. Somehow the ache in your soul now was comparable to that day. As much as you swallowed it down, you loved him. You knew it in that moment. 

He had followed, slowly. In blind rage and distress, you were throwing things into a suitcase. 

“I’ll-“ his voice started, but choked. He cleared it and tried again, “I’ll stop. I can stop, Rhiannon.” He said your name with such broken tenderness that you hunched over the bed on your hands and sucked in air before sobbing again. 

“Please. I’ll stop.” He repeated, hugging your back. You were sure he was crying now too. “Don’t leave… I’ll stop.” You didn’t believe him, but caved anyways. It took a while for the sobs to cease. Someone came to the door and knocked, calling something unintelligible through. Neither of you moved. 

When you were sure your nose wasn’t dripping anymore, you turned in his arms and hugged his chest. You needed something else. You looked up at him with big, wet eyes. “Promise me.”

“I promise.” You didn’t really care if he was lying. You just needed to hear it. 

You kissed him so hard it hurt your lips. He met you with the same intensity, pushing you backwards onto the bed. The anger you felt before manifested in the way you grabbed his shirt and his hair. Before you knew what you were doing, he was pushing your dress up your legs without breaking the kiss. You needed him so badly, you didn’t spare a thought for your semi-celibate agreement.

He pulled your underwear to the side and rubbed his fingers over you before slipping them in. You sucked his hot breath, and let your head fall back. He stopped to undo his belt with the urgency of a teenage boy. You usually preferred more preparation, but the feeling of him stretching you was exactly the pain you needed. In all your daydreams where he would finally make love to you, you envisioned it more tenderly. This was rough and needy. You were both desperate. 

He pushed your further back to join you on the bed, pinning your legs near your ears. He was grunting something you couldn’t make out at first, “I’m sorry, I love you, I love you.” 

It was overwhelming, but you wanted to hear it again. You hugged his neck to hide the tears that slid down your cheeks and into your ears. He slowed his pace. You shied away when he leaned on his hands to look at you, embarrassed by how your face must look. You dragged his down to kiss again, moaning in his open mouth. The pleasure started to calm the sea of emotions that you were downing in just minutes before. You were dripping wet now and grinding against him.

He tried to pull your dress above your chest, struggling with it. You used your legs to hook over his waist and he allowed you to flip him onto his back. The dress was stripped over your head with no regard for your makeup, which was probably ruined now anyways. He gripped the back of your thigh with one hand, the other flat on your stomach as you rolled your hips back and forth. 

“Fuck, like that.” He groaned. Your flesh made obscene noises. You whimpered, a deep electricity building in you. You leaned back on your hands to hit the right spot, bucking towards your orgasm. Your muscles contracted and heat spread across your chest and cheeks. 

“Keith,” the eye contact you shared was so intense you couldn’t blink. You couldn’t help it anymore, body unraveling as you came. He moaned again as you tightened. When you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore, you leaned forward to rest your weight on his chest. He pulled your legs up easily like a rag doll’s and hugged your waist tight as he rammed up into you. 

You were so sensitive it felt like you were still cumming, moans muffled by the pillow. It wasn’t long before he pulled out, a shot of cum shooting over the inside of your thigh. 

You laid still, all but collapsed over him. There wasn’t a thought in your mind, he’d managed to fuck you into forgetting how this transpired. Your mind was buzzing in the most pleasant way. 

“Do we still have to go?” You eventually lifted your head to ask.

“Yes, I think so.” He murmured and kissed your temple. “Come on.” 

You rinsed off in the shower without wetting your hair and tried to fix your makeup. Keith was waiting to zip you back into your dress. 

You found your way to the party based on a note left for you in the lobby. It was a walk-up, which you knew you were far too tired for. You started to laugh one floor up and leaned against the railing for a break. Your legs were shaking. “I can’t do this.” Keith laughed too, “should I carry you?” 

“Right.” You rolled your eyes. 

“Get on.” He stepped down a step and turned around. He wasn’t kidding. “Keith, you’re going to kill us.” You giggled. 

“I wouldn’t mind. Come on.” 

“Fuck it.” You braced yourself on his shoulder and gently wrapped your legs around his waist. You squealed when he tried to turn and struggled a bit, then caught his footing. “See? Easy.” He started the long trek up, obviously breathing heavier. 

“You don’t have to-“ 

“Shush.” 

You finally made it, but Keith didn’t give you a chance to get down. He knocked on the rusted metal door. When no one came, he kicked it. “Keith!” You laughed. 

The door slid open to a dimly lit warehouse, people stuffed inside and music playing. “Thank you kindly.” Keith nodded to the man and walked past him, holding your legs tight to keep you in place. People stared at the two of you as you wandered inside. You didn’t even consider being embarrassed.

Luckily, you found familiar faces quickly. “There they are!” Jonesie shouted. “We didn’t think you were showin’.”

Keith finally let you down. Your dress had crept too far up your thighs but you didn’t adjust it. “I went by your room.” Donnie grinned knowingly. 

“Fuck off.” You lit a cigarette and looked around. “What’s this shindig for?”

“Gallery or something, I don’t know why we’re here either.” Clem replied. 

“We all need a bit of culture.” Charlie seemed to appraise a large canvas of random colors. You never got that abstract shit. 

You scanned the room again and Keith dropped his hand to the curve in your back. Without meaning to, you locked eyes with Mick from over Francis’ shoulder. His lips were tight against each other, features blank. You furrowed your brow in question, unsure of why he was staring. He seemed to jerk his attention away. 

The party was painfully dull, even with your rowdy group. A few pictures were taken of you and someone from a magazine tried to ask you a question but you really weren’t in the mood to speak. The high of your tryst had worn off and you had started to think about everything that happened before. Eventually Keith pulled you close and let you know he wanted to leave. In the taxi you rested your head inside his arm.

When you were in bed, ready to sleep off the exhaustion of the previous night and that day’s hysterics, you shot up. Keith looked at you like you were insane. 

“Holy shit. Did you tell me that you love me?”

He blinked. “Yeah. I did.”

Your heart fluttered. “You sure? I mean, that you love me?” 

He laughed, sitting up on his elbow. “Any other girl would just accept it.”

You dropped onto your back. Hair covered the side of your face and you waited expectantly. He could see you weren’t letting up.

“I’ve been with my fair share of birds, but I haven’t felt this before.” He rolled one of your curls between his fingers. “I don’t know about love at first sight, but the first night we spent together… I think I knew you were it.” 

Your face burned. You didn’t know what to say, you placed your hand on his chest. “I haven’t been in love before. I don’t know what it’s supposed to feel like.”

“It’s okay. You don’t have to love me. You’re the most beautiful specimen in the world. Everything about you is wonderful. You could hate me and I’d still feel the same.” 

You felt something catch in your throat. “I guess… I’m scared you’ll hurt me. I’m worried I’m in too deep, and too soon.”

He leaned forward to kiss your head. “I don’t know for sure-“ you trailed off, scooting closer to hide your face. “I think I love you too.” It was a whisper, you were terrified to say the words. He squeezed you tight. 

“You’ve made me the luckiest bloke in New York.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn’t really proof this, sorry! If you enjoy and want to see more, please comment. It encourages me way more than you know.


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry, I simply did not edit this...

The next few days flew by in a blur of lovemaking and songwriting. It wasn’t until much later, years after, that you realized Keith wasn’t getting sick the way a heroin addict would had he given up the needle cold turkey. Maybe you didn’t know better, or just didn’t want to believe he was still using. Looking back, he must have gotten better at concealing it. Nevertheless, you were over the moon and it showed. The boys were a bit shocked by how upbeat you were. 

Then came a phone call. You were lounging around a suite with Clement, Keith, Bill and Mick when it came. Mick was the first to his feet, dangling the phone and answering with a slurred “hullo?”

“Haven’t heard from you in a bit, love. How’s the little beast then?” He leaned against the wall, eyes focused on Keith. “That’s good, that’s good. You know what, I’m not sure he’s here. I’ll be right back. Gimme two seconds.” He covered the phone with his hand. “Anita.”

Keith looked at you like his hand was caught in the cookie jar. Your stomach dropped when you realized everyone was staring at you. “Uh, tell her I’ll call later.” He tried weakly.

Mick sucked his teeth for a moment. “I don’t think she’s going to take that. She sounds bothered.” 

“I’ll go.” You got to your feet and Clem did as well. “We’ll get somethin’ to eat.” He dropped a large hand on your shoulder to lead you out the door. You didn’t catch him throwing a threatening glance at your boyfriend.

Once out of the room, the tension lapsed and you let out a breath. “God…”

“I don’t know what you expected, Rhi. You chose him.” Clem hit the elevator button with a force that surprised you. “Of all people…”

You knew that Clem wasn’t a fan of this relationship, hell he always hated the guys you went with. You’d been avoiding this exact conversation with him. While he was the closest friend you had among your band, you often steered clear of him for the unwelcome critiques he offered when you ‘lost focus’. This was the only time he might have a leg to stand on.

“He’s got a kid, so what.” You shrugged.

“He’s got a woman too. Mick was right. You’re just a little something for the road.” 

You were shocked that he would come out and say what everyone must be thinking. “He- he loves me.” You offered weakly. You realized then that it sounded ridiculous.

“Oh, how refreshing.” Clem rolled his eyes. The door opened and he stepped out. “Like a man has never said that to the other woman. You’re the smartest girI know, but you’re being an idiot right now. He’s going to screw you over.” 

You swallowed. He was the kind of friend to give it to you bluntly. It wasn’t new for him to hurt your feelings. This particular conversation was one you’d thought you were prepared for. But his ‘truth’ hurt far more than you expected. “God, Clement.” You followed him out of the elevator and looked up at the ceiling to prevent tears from starting. “It’s my mistake to make. Even if you’re right… You don’t have to be such a cocksucker about it.” 

He shifted on his feet, maybe a little sorry for how he phrased it, not that he’d ever apologize. “Look… you know I love you. It’s hard to watch you set yourself up to be played.” 

“I’m ready for it. I’m always ready for it. But I’m happy now, that’s what matters.” 

“You don’t look happy to me.” He quirked an eyebrow up. You didn’t respond, following him to the hotel bar for a bite. That evening you had a radio and magazine interview before the show, meaning you didn’t see Keith again until after you played. When you did, he was biting his nails on the balcony, obviously lost in his head.

You knocked on the glass window before stepping out into the cold air. He didn’t hug you like he usually did. “What’s wrong?” You asked. He dropped his head to the side and then stood back straight, his jittery motions indicating he was anxious and likely fucked up on uppers. 

“A newspaper in England printed a picture of us at dinner.”

“Me and you?”

“All of us. I was kissing you. Story said we’re an item or something- rock n roll’s new ‘mister and missus’. Anita’s torn up about it.” 

You crossed your arms over your chest. “She was bound to find out sometime. What did you say?”

“I told her the truth. She’s upset. She says she’ll come after me with a paternity suit.” 

You nodded. “That’s about what I expected. You were going to take care of them anyways. How do you feel?”

He put his arms between his legs and slumped to the ground. “Guilty.”

“I’m sorry.” You said, without feeling very sorry at all. In fact, you were kind of upset as well. Though he was doing everything he could to show you that you weren’t temporary, you couldn’t help but hold onto what Clem had said. 

“Think I’ll just go to bed.” He dropped his head and ran a hand through his greasy hair. 

“Let’s go then.” You offered a hand. When he stood, he bent his back and wrapped his arms around your waist, burying his head low on your chest. “I love you.”

You let out a breath and kissed the top of his head. “I know, baby.”

In your room, you stroked his head until he passed out. He was emotionally exhausted, you could see it in the dark rings under his eyes. You couldn’t sleep, however. About an hour later you redressed and slipped out of the room to join the men hanging around upstairs. They were all in good spirits, welcoming you without asking where Keith was. The day’s drama had probably made its way around.

You took a seat beside Mick and tossed back a bottle of beer in a few long gulps. “Y’alright?” He asked. You shrugged. “I guess.”

“You’re not angry with him?” 

“I don’t have anything to be angry about.”

“Then you’re a better woman than most. I thought you’d be livid about her visiting.” 

Your bottle dropped to your side. What? Mick watched you closely. “What, he didn’t tell you?” 

“She isn’t coming here.” You shook your head. “He would’ve told me.”

“Maybe it slipped his mind.” Mick offered. 

Slipped his mind. You could have laughed. Mick slipped his hand over yours reassuringly. “Alright, darlin’?” You hated his silly American accent, even more now that it made you half-smile.

“No. But I’ll drink until I am.”

“That’s what we like to hear.” He grinned in that face-splitting way of his and handed you a bottle of something deep amber. You raised it to your lips and opened your throat so you couldn’t dwell much on the taste.

It was at that moment you decided to get absolutely wrecked. You insisted on going out, finding somewhere in Philadelphia worth a good ruckus. The boys were more than willing, only Charlie and Francis sticking behind. To you they seemed twin flames, always having an intelligent conversation like old men over a chessboard. If you didn’t know better, you would think they might have declined your invitation in favor of some privacy. Not that you would ever say anything, or even pay much mind to it. You knew Francis was cut from a different cloth than the rest of the boys. It wasn’t as rare as people thought. Many of your father’s good Navy friends were ‘married at sea’ and lived together after the service. You figured if anyone had the stamina to stick together for a long time, their gender didn’t matter much at all. 

Before you could think critically about your decision, you were six drinks in at a dive bar with sticky floors. Your companions were playing darts, hogging the jukebox, and arm wrestling with other drunk patrons. Unfortunately, you were not having as pleasant an evening as them. Mick had cuddled into a corner booth with you, arm over your shoulder and listening to you vomit feelings onto the table. He was a surprisingly good listener and you found yourself not minding the traipsing of his fingers through your hair. 

“Listen, babes, I met Keith in the sandbox. He’s a beautiful man but he’s really got no way with women. I think he’s got Anita coming down here in secret because he can’t treat her poorly. He can’t admit he doesn’t care for her, even if it’s the right thing to do.”

You let your head fall into your hands. “What do I do?”

“Depends.” He shrugs, shouting a bit over the music. “You love him or what?” 

The room seemed to sway back and forth. “Fuck if I do.”

“Then you’ll just have to brave it then, hm? Quit complaining and have another drink.” 

And so you did. It seemed pretty soon after that you were bent over the curb vomiting like you were exorcising a demon. You didn’t know who took on the responsibility of holding back your hair, but you were thankful. It was a bitch to get chunks out of your curls. 

“Sweet mercy, you good love?” Mick slurred, kneeling beside you when the gagging subsided. You nearly fell forward, but someone held you upright by the waist. Clement. You could smell his vile aftershave. 

“Come on, baby girl.” He murmured. “Lift up your feet.” 

You let him drag your bottom half from the ground and loop his arms under you. The motion of his steps made you feel even more sick. Your head felt back limp in his arms. When you opened your eyes, Mick was upside down and walking beside the two of you. No one else had seemed to tag along. 

“You done for the night?” Clement asked him. 

“Might as well be. She put me off my appetite for Schnapps.” He joked. 

You groaned. They somehow got you into the backseat of a car, someone stroking your head tenderly. “Fucking Keith.” You muttered. “Fuck.”

“Fucking Keith!” Mick sounded, probably joking. Clem seconded and before you knew it they were both shouting at your absent beau. The noise was like a siren, the pressure making you feel like your head was underwater. You must’ve fallen asleep. You found yourself the next morning in bed between the two of them. Clem was fully dressed but Mick had taken his shirt off. 

The room was a wreck. You blinked and moved your mouth around, but your head and your jaw aching horribly. Mick’s arm was wrapped loosely over your waist, you hadn’t noticed until now. You tried to shimmy out of his hold. He grumbled and opened an eye. When it focused on your face, he smiled. You were sure your face looked terrible, but you weren’t embarrassed. He’d probably seen you in much worse states after a show.

Mick raised himself onto his elbow, looking over at Clem’s sleeping frame before cuddling closer into you. You brain must have been working too slow to realize that this was strange. You smiled sleepily and closed your eyes. And then he pressed his lips over yours. For some reason it made sense for a moment. You pushed him back just barely with your hand. 

“No.” You whispered. You weren’t even as upset as you typically would have been. Sure, Keith was his best friend, but those were the most tricky friendships to navigate. In Mick’s childish mind he probably thought you would be down to ‘get back’ at him given how upset you were last night. He honestly didn’t look all that disappointed. He shrugged as if to say ‘can’t miss the shots you don’t take’. 

You crawled over him, and he made another attempt on your virtue. His hand slid over your side and thigh. You slapped it away in warning. “Don’t make me regret giving you a chance.” You spoke just under your normal tone, adjusting your dress as you stood beside the bed. His expression was indiscernible. 

After you found your shoes, you disappeared into the hall. The high boots were thrown over your shoulder, legs feeling more jelly than bone. You stood for a long while in front of Keith’s door before gathering the nerve to put a hand on the knob. You realized you didn’t have a key, it must’ve been misplaced. You really and honestly did not want to knock. Maybe you would come back after breakfast to grab your things and make the flight. Perhaps have the front desk get you in while Keith ate. Anything but-

He opened the door, fully dressed and wonderfully put together for this early in the morning. He blinked, your lips clamped shut.

“Was comin’ to look for you.” He shifted on his feet. “You disappeared last night.”

“Yeah.” You crossed your arms over your stomach. There was a moment of silence between you.

“Where’d you go?”

“Downtown. I don’t know where. Couldn’t sleep.”

“Alone?”

“With the guys.”

“Get any sleep?”

“A little.”

“Mm.” You could hear him catching up. “Where?”

“I don’t know. Clem or Mick’s room. We crashed together.”

“Who’d you sleep with?”

“Both of them.” You said, suddenly defensive.

“Did you do anything?”

“God, no, Keith. I got too drunk, they dragged me back. Smell my fucking hair. I was sick.” 

He sniffed and stepped aside to let you come in. “I don’t want to fight.”

“You don’t want to fight.” You repeated, half-mocking. “So when were you going to tell me Anita’s coming?”

You peeled off your shirt with your back to him. He was silent for a few seconds. Something shifted behind you. He must have sat down.

“I don’t know. I was worried.”

“Worried about what? We’ve been transparent the whole time. You start lying to me Keith, I’ll fucking- I’ll-“ you turned around to face him. You felt overwhelmed with anger. You could hit something. 

“I know. I know.” His face was in his hands. “I thought it wouldn’t be a big deal. Talk to her. See the baby. Be done with it.”

“That’s all it is?” 

“Yes. I swear.” He nodded. “She gets it. I don’t even know that she cares much about being together after all. She loves her freedom.” 

“What freedom can you have with a kid strapped to you?” You sat on the bed in full buff, leaning over to grab and light a cigarette. “Be careful.”

“I will. You won’t see anything of her, I swear.”

“Wouldn’t mind if I did. Fuck it, we might get along. But keeping shit from me… lying by omission. Don’t do it again. Please.” You sighed and leaned back on your arm. 

He sat back up straight. “I won’t. I hate sleeping without you.” 

You smiled and held your arms wide open. “Come here then. Get a cat nap in.” 

He grinned, eyes shining. You let him barrel you back on the bed, cigarette slipping from your fingers and singeing the sheets. His head laid flat against your rib cage, listening to the steady beat of your heart. You thought in that moment about the hypocrisy of expecting him to tell you about Anita, while knowing full well you’d never let slip that Mick had laid one on you just a half hour ago. For all you know, that information could end the Stones. It made you feel incredibly guilty, but what the hell was a kiss? It was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very sorry for how short this is. I’m covid positive lol. I thought that would give me time to write more but the brain fog is real. I also don’t really know what I’m doing with this anymore. Send me your feedback and theories if you’re interested enough. You can also hmu on tumblr! Main blog is @blood0fferings.


	8. 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also did not edit this, I’m so sorry.

You sat with a leg thrown over the arm of you chair, sucking the life from a joint. The room was smokey and dark, decorated like a scene out of some Bollywood movie. Everything was deep plum purple, vibrant orange, and speckles of gold. Clement was answering a question in a long-winded way. You honestly weren’t sure what anyone was talking about anymore. This interviewer was big, or so your manager had said, and you’d made a special stop on the way to Baltimore to see him. These were getting more frequent and it was becoming a nuisance. You knew that this was part of the gig, but in an ideal world your music would speak for itself.

The interviewer had begun by asking for a brief introduction to each of you. You had suppressed an eyeroll, thinking of what they wanted from you. Maybe some Vampira character with a bit of Marilyn Monroe flirtation. When it came around to you, you simply said that you are a poet. 

“Are you the brain of the operation? The so-called ‘cult leader’?” He asked, sweating with the stuffiness of the room and choking smoke.

“Sure.” you spoke dismissively. He seemed to write far more than what was being said. 

“There has been some criticism of your occult image in the media given the recent Tate Labianca murders. What do you have to say to that?”

“Don’t have anything to say to that. We’re not hippies, man.” You sat up and turned to touch your legs on the ground, leaning forward on your knees. “I don’t want to be dismissive, but I can’t see any connection between our image and something so horrible.” 

“If I can speak to the criticism, there are those who believe you’re glorifying the same ideals that inspired a heinous crime. I have an article here-” The interviewer shuffled for a folded up clipping among his things, “-from a national ‘family’ newspaper. It says here that your lyrics directly support actions taken by the criminals.”

Donnie started to stand, as if he was going to start something physical, but Francis and Jones grabbed him. The interviewer seemed to be more excited by this than nervous. Your group looked to you to speak. 

“I think that opinion is valid, I can see why they believe it enough to put it in print. People that fear anything new or different. It’s not their fault that they don’t know better. What we draw inspiration from are ancient rites of human expression. Those are the things that fascinated me in grade school, and I think that there’s a lot of displaced youth that find it interesting too. We’re in a very special time in history, young people make up most of the country and they’re hungry. They want something more than their parents had. There’s so much repression In America, and with all of this turmoil, the war, the brutality- we need to escape. Some of us are escaping with drugs, flower power, rejecting everything we know. Cult of Souls is exploring the madness of Dionysus. While we’re fascinated by the followers that ripped live animals apart and induced fevers, I would never advocate violence. There’s a difference between exploring myth and emulating it. I detest being associated in any way with those monsters. We’re just drinking our wine and dancing naked in the moonlight. Occasionally.” You shot him a killer smile. He seemed to still be struggling to keep up with your words, but stopped to catch your expression. He melted, and you remembered your power.

“Any other questions?” You asked.

“Uh-” He stuttered and flipped through his notes, dropping his pen in the process. “Are…” his face lit up a sweaty pink, “are you single?”

“No, but I am.” Donnie jumped in, batting his eyelids. 

After the interview, you all had a meeting with some big record executives and your ever-perspiring manager Billie. Honestly, you couldn’t pay much attention at all. You’d be back in New York tomorrow and Anita would be arriving just an hour after you all. It was nerve wracking. You had convinced yourself that Keith would see her and his son and realize he made a mistake. He’d break it off with you and you’d have to continue on a tour with the love of your life. At one point during the meeting, you excused yourself to hyperventilate in a bathroom stall. 

On the plane ride, it was worse. Everyone was joking around and letting the good times roll. You tried to smile every so often, but it felt painfully forced. Keith was always too perceptive of your moods. He gripped your hand like a vice and often kissed your knuckles. 

“Alright, love?” He murmured against the side of your head. You nodded and continued looking out the window, trying to make the layer of white clouds below give you some perspective on the greater meaning of life. When you arrived in New York, you were beyond fatigued. You breathed in more lines of blow than you typically would to feign pre-show jitters. You were so worried that these troubles were affecting your performances. In reality they were just as vivacious and impressive as ever the more you did, but your heart was not in them. If you couldn’t connect with the audience genuinely, was it worth it at all? You were supposed to get as much from these as you were giving. 

Keith was waiting for you backstage. You let him plant a fat kiss on you. “I’ll come back to you right after. Go have fun.”

And you did. Or tried to. It seemed that both bands were in on it, trying to include you and give you a good time. You appreciated it, but it was also quite patronizing. Mick kept looking at you like he was echoing your insecurities. He’s fucking her right now. He loves her. Why would he be with a used up little girl with a beautiful woman that can give him a home? His side eyes and smirks were driving you fucking insane.

You tried not to drink, still fairly sick and tired from the night before. Every one of these nights was driving a sledgehammer into your vitality. You’d have to sleep for a month straight after this tour was through. Still, it would be over soon enough. Just a few more weeks. Maybe it was time to talk to Keith about what would happen after it all ended. Was it too soon for that? Would you seem clingy? Fuck. You gave in and had a beer.

“Here, here!” Clement stood, deep voice bellowing. He raised a half empty glass and demanded everyone’s attention. “I toast to The Rolling Stones, to whom we owe signing to Atlantic Records. We couldn’t have done it without you.”

Everyone hoorahed and clinked glasses. “You would have done it without us too. Truly the most talented group we’ve had the pleasure of knowing.” Charlie spoke as well. 

“Yeah, fuck the Beatles!” Jonesie cried, only half joking.

“Fuck the Beatles!” The table erupted with another round of touching glasses. 

You realized how little you had been excited for the new label signing and all it would afford you. The gravity of it only hit you then. Keith was really taking precedence over your life ambition. That in itself made you more anxious than anything. You had to excuse yourself again. This time, you just walked outside and kept going. New York at night was unfamiliar, though you’d been here just a week before. You had played Madison Square Garden, which was meant to be something out of a dream, and it hardly mattered at all. 

Eventually, you found a little jazz club that spoke to you in the dark. It’s lighting was blood red, and the muffled music that called to you was so somber it reflected exactly what you felt inside. You stepped in expecting a crowd, but it was fairly sparse. You took a seat to the very far front side. No one came to wait on you, and considering the tightness of your throat you were thankful. You sat for what felt like a long time. You watched the woman on stage croon without really seeing her. Before you knew it, the band was taking a break and you were left to sit awkwardly with empty hands. 

You fished in your pocket for all the bills you had on hand and walked by the stage to drop them in an open guitar case when no one seemed to be looking. Then you walked outside to waive down a cab. You were absolutely freezing and exhausted. Upon reaching the hotel, you found that Keith had not returned. It was well past two in the morning now and it sat in your stomach wrong. You crawled into bed with everything but your shoes intact and began to cry. You’d cried more in the past week than you had in years, or so it felt. It got old pretty quick and you decided to let yourself give into sleep instead. 

You were just getting into a deep sleep when the door opened. Your eyes were too heavy to open, but your brain began to tune in just enough to recognize those clumsy steps of his. He cuddled into you with a sigh. You woke again in the burning light of mid morning. 

You made a quiet call for some coffee and breakfast. As you poured milk and a few sugars in your cup, and a black one for Keith, he stirred and sat up before he opened his eyes. “Thirsty?” You extended the mug to him. 

“Mmhrm.” He acknowledged you and rubbed a hand over his face. He looked more tired than usual. 

You let him sip, pretending to read the morning’s paper. You wondered how long the media would suck that L.A. murder story dry. 

“How’s Marlon?” You finally asked.

“Good, good. Bigger.”

“Yeah, they do that. Anita?”

“Fine.”

You knocked back the rest of your scalding coffee. “You stayed late.”

“Yeah. Yeah…” he drawled off. “We talk about a lot. How it’s all going to work, yunno.” 

“Mm. Is it all okay?”

“For now, I think. Pissed, of course, but she knew it was coming. She might have him stay with someone while she gets on another film.” 

“Oh? So soon?”

“It’s only fair. I’ve gone off and done my job. She should be able to do the same.” 

You could see how that made sense. You suppose it was your own archaic sense of mother’s giving up their dreams to care for children. “You’re right. When do they leave.”

“They may stay actually. In New York.”

Something about her being stateside made you uneasy. Had you ever been so insecure?

Keith extended his arm for you to come lay with him. You did, plopping on your side. He spilled a bit of his coffee and then tabled it. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.” You said in a small voice. You were both quiet for a while, him playing with your hair and you with his shirt. “Tour’s over in a few weeks.”

“Mm.”

You looked up at him. “I guess I’ll go back to L.A.?”

“We can go anywhere you want.” We. You could have moaned in relief. 

You couldn’t fight the grin off of your face. “We got invited to a house in Beverly Hills to stay and record an album. Will you come?”

“Woman, you couldn’t keep me away if you tried.” 

You pulled his neck down to kiss him, hard, and he fell with all his weight onto you. You slid your hand between you and over his crotch. He snickered into your mouth and sat up to pull his shirt off. “Cheeky.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I should continue this or start working on something else. I can’t write as much with Covid brain and I’m having a hard time thinking of more drama to develop.


	9. 9

Your next concert reinvigorated you with the energy you’d lost in the past few weeks. The new song you had written with Keith was amazing, you never thought you’d feel so proud of what might be considered a love song. When you sang it, your core filled with heat and power. By the end of the evening, you were handing out kisses and hugs to the fans that had waited behind the venue for you. It was one of those moments you knew instantly would be memorable.

In the limousine to your dinner, you snuggled up to Keith and chatted about how the song had gone and what you might like to tweak. 

“Don’t you two run off and start a new outfit.” Mick sniped from his seat.

“And break up the Stones? I’d never live it down.” You joked. “I hope you all are still messing around in your seventies.”

“Fat chance. I won’t make it to fifty.” Keith half-joked. 

“Not if you keep drinking. Save some for me.” You pulled the bottle from his hand and took a swig. He grinned and smacked a kiss on your bitter lips. You stared up at his face just a moment longer than you needed to, him grinning all the while. 

You felt back in the swing of things after dinner. Anita had been pushed to the very back of your mind, along with all of your other worries. Keith also seemed relaxed, and didn’t seem to be drinking as much as usual. It was nice to be relatively sober for an evening. You dragged him down onto the dance floor by his scarf, him pretending to be a bit put off by it. You hadn’t bothered to wonder if he could dance. 

A swung your arms over his neck and moved your hips from side to side. He hesitantly put both hands over your waist, fingers interlocking at your back. His mouth hung open just a bit, eyes half-lidded and heated. He wasn’t very good at moving his feet, but his natural rhythm saved his grace. You turned in his hands, pressing your back to his stomach. Your neck craned up to look at him from the side. The breath between the two of your was shared, hot and heavy in the cramped club. 

“C’mon.” He grumbled in your ear. He grabbed the backs of your arms and pushed you forward. You weren’t sure where he was leading you at first but let him have his way without question. He pushed right through the line into the bathroom, ignoring the yelps and cracks of distasteful drunk women. Heat prickled your cheeks and you giggled uncontrollably as he pulled you into a stall and closed it behind you. He didn’t give you a chance to catch your breath, lifting you by the outside of your legs and pressing your back to the cold metal.

Your limbs and lips tangled. He fumbled to push your shirt up and sucked spots on your clavicle. Heat roared in your ears and electricity tingled between your thighs. Keith let you stand on your feet and dropped to his knees, pushing your skirt up to your stomach. You tried to be as quiet as you could out of respect for the unwilling people in the bathroom, hoping the music, voices, and running water would drown you out. His teeth pulled the waistband of your panties down and his hands dragged them the rest of the way to your ankles. The cold wetness of his tongue slipped between your folds and made you forget how to stand straight. You gripped the toilet paper dispenser for dear life as he pried your legs further apart and slipped a finger inside. 

You pressed your lips in a hard line. You felt like your body was melting into him, already so wet there wasn’t any friction in his movements. Keith’s tongue worked an unforgiving rhythm in just the right place. You couldn’t handle it anymore, you needed him to fuck you. You bent at the waist to pull his jacket with force. He grinned as he moved away, chin wet and neck ruddy. He was already fumbling with his belt and zipper as he stood, almost falling over in the process. You laughed and stood your feet on the toilet seat, then hooked your legs around his waist when he had some leverage to hold you up. When he pushed into you, you couldn’t help a whiny exhale. He thrusted like he couldn’t get deep enough. 

Suddenly, metallic banging stole the breath from both of you. Your stomach tightened into a ball, but Keith didn’t pull out. 

“Get out of here with that shit before I get cops in here!” Some man yelled from the other side. Keith, sweaty and red, looked at you with wide eyes and laughed. 

“Just uh, fixing a button.” He called back. “Be right out.” 

The man yelled something else you couldn’t hear and Keith tried to let you down easily. He tucked himself back in while you straightened your clothes and used your underwear to wipe yourself. You made out of the bathroom like shameless thieves, arm-in-arm and snickering.

You waved a quick goodbye at the table as you passed. Keith didn’t bother, pulling you out of the club and down to the street. He hardly waited to close the cab door before he pulled you into another kiss and slipped his hand over the inside of your thigh. You weren’t above getting fingered in a cab, but he didn’t dare venture further. Instead, he pinched the soft skin of your leg and pulled your bottom lip away with his teeth. Your eyes darted to the driver’s rear view mirror as if you might catch him peeping. When it was clear his eyes were staying fixed on the road, you spread your legs and grabbed Keith’s hand. He didn’t resist, couldn’t, and rubbed against your drawers. 

The ride wasn’t over fast enough. You were so uncomfortably wet and you could clearly make out the line of his cock struggling against his trousers. You both ran like children into the hotel after paying your driver, blissfully oblivious to the people you passed and very impatient for the elevator. Keith pressed the button three times quickly and you wrapped your arms around his front. He smelled like nothing in the world, cigarettes, tangy alcohol, his clove aftershave, and the musky scent of his sweat. He made you salivate. 

There was another man in the elevator or you’d have had him right there. Instead, you stood quietly with your bottom pressing Keith back into the wall. You ground yourself against his crotch, his mouth on the back of your head and an arm slung over your shoulder. You could hardly remember getting back to the room, but you were undressing before he managed to close the door. He tripped out of his pants, laughing as he did so, you jumping into the bed and bouncing on your knees. You grabbed his hips as soon as he was close enough and dropped onto your stomach, tongue sliding flat over the bottom of his cock. He dropped his head to the side and closed his eyes, letting himself fall into the rhythm of your hungry, selfish sucking. 

“Rhi,” he groaned, “let me fuck you.”

Your lips pulled back with a long string of drool. You smiled up at him and flipped onto your back, pulling your knees back to your ears. He rubbed the tip up and down your slit before pushing in. The stretch was so good that you both moaned. He pulled you closer, lower down on the bed, and snapped his hips all the way back. You lost yourself immediately, completely uncaring of the noises that gurgled out of your throat. He gripped your thighs so hard you could feel the bruises forming. 

“Keith, fuck!” You sat up enough to watch him sliding into you. When you met his eyes, you could have died right there. He fucked you like he hated you, but his eyes were something completely different. He loved you. You didn’t doubt it at that moment. 

It was too much after the tension and teasing. He was close, you could tell by his unsteady rhythm and hard jaw. He grunted and pulled himself out, barely in time to spill over your stomach. You laid your head back, panting. He dropped to the side of you, on his chest, face turned to yours. “I love you.” 

“I know.” You pushed his hair back and kissed his forehead. “I love you too.”

You laid there a while recovering before dragging him to the shower. In your white bathrobes you drank a bottle of champagne and talked about what you wanted to do in California when the tour was finished. At some point, you fell asleep cuddled over him. 

When you woke, he was gone. It didn’t bother you at first, figuring he had gone to practice or something else, though he usually left a note or something with your breakfast. You dressed yourself casually for the day’s trip to Boston, packed your things, and headed to the lobby. The boys were all gathered around, including the Stones. You couldn’t see Keith.

“Where’s he at?” Charlie asked as you walked up.

“He’s been gone since this morning.” You shrugged. 

“He with Anita?” Mick asked, “did he say anything?”

“No. He would’ve told me.” You shifted uncomfortably on your feet. He wouldn’t have gone to her in the night, would he?

“I’ll call someone.” Charlie looked uncomfortably between the group and headed off. 

Your stomach started to turn. The flight was in three hours, where could he be? You certainly weren’t his keeper, but you had a terrible feeling.

“We’ll head to the airport without him. He’ll be there.” Clement spoke up. “Come on Rhiannon.” 

“No, I’ll wait.” You shook your head.

“Listen, we go on at eight. They can be late, we can’t. We’ll see them later.” He looked square in the face as a scolding teacher would. “Let’s go.”

You glanced at Mick. He didn’t make any indication of disagreement. “Call the gate if you’re going to be late.” He nodded. You followed your band and tried to quell the panic you felt. Something was wrong. You just knew it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have mostly recovered from being sick but my brain is still super foggy. I hope this is okay, I want to put something out to be productive but I don’t have the energy to reread it for errors or anything. As always, PLEASE leave me a comment. Tell me what you’d like to see happen, what you feel is going on, anything! It keeps me motivated and I’d love to hear what you think. Merry Christmas!

**Author's Note:**

> I haven’t written anything in a long time. Please let me know if you enjoy it!


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